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*'My darling Rue — my little Rue Carew 






The Dark Star 


By ROBERT W. (^HAMBERS 


Author of ‘ ‘The Girl Philippa, * ’ ‘ ‘Who Goes There' * 
“The Hidden Children," Etc. 



WITH FRONTISPIECE 
By W. D. STEVENS 


A. L. BURT COMPANY 
Publishers New York 

Published by Arrangement with D. Appleton & Company 




l' 



f 


COPTRIGHT, 1917, BT 
ROBERT W. CHAMBERS 


CoPTBlOflT, 1916, 1917, BT THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE CoiCPAlTy 


I O'] ^ £ 

Eopiaceirten^ 





Printed in the United States of America 


TO MT FRIEND 

EDGAR SISSON 


•) 


> 

a ) 


) > ) 


Dans c*metier-la, faut 

rien chercher a comprendre. 

Rene Benjamin 


ALAK’S SONG 


Where are you going, 

Nai'a? 

Through the still noon — 

Where are you going? 

To hear the thunder of the sea 
And the wind blowing! — 

To find a stormy moon to comfort me 
Across the dune! 


Why are you weeping, 

Nai'a? 

Through the still noon — 

Why are you weeping? 

Because I found no wind, no sea. 

No white surf leaping. 

Nor any flying moon to comfort me 
Upon the dune. 

What did you see there, 

Na'ia? 

In the still noon — 

What did you see there? 

Only the parched world drowsed in drought, 
And a fat bee, there. 

Prying and probing at a poppy’s mouth 
That drooped a-swoon. 
vii 


ALAK’S SONG 


What did you hear there, 

Na'ia? 

In the still noon — 

What did you hear there? 

Only a kestrel’s lonely cry 
From the wood near there — 

A rustle in the wheat as I passed by — 
A cricket’s rune. 


Who led you homeward, 

Na'ia? 

Through the still noon — 

Who led you homeward? 

My soul within me sought the sea. 

Leading me foam-ward: 

But the lost moon’s ghost returned with me 
Through the high noon. 


Where is your soul then, 

Na'ia? 

Lost at high noon — 

Where is your soul then? 

It wanders East — or West — I think — 

Or near the Pole, then — 

Or died — perhaps there on the dune’s dry 
brink 

Seeking the moon, 
viii 


THE DARK STAR 


“The dying star grew dark; the last light faded from it; 
went out. Prince Erlik laughed. 

“And suddenly the old order of things began to pass 
away more swiftly. 

“Between earth and outer space — between Creator and 
created, confusing and confounding their identities, — a rush- 
ing darkness grew — the hurrying wrack of immemorial 
storms heralding whirlwinds through which Truth alone 
survives. 

“Awaiting the inevitable reestablishment of such tem- 
porary conventions as render the incident of human exist- 
ence possible, the brooding Demon which men call Truth 
stares steadily at Tengri under the high stars which are 
passing too, and which at last shall pass away and leave 
the Demon watching all alone amid the ruins of eternity.*’ 
The Prophet of the Kiot Bordjiguen 


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CONTENTS 

Preface. Children of the Star 


JHAPTEB 

I. The Wonder-Box 


• 

, 


PAGE 

1 

II. 

Brookhollow . 





18 

III. 

In Embryo 





50 

IV. 

The Trodden Way . 





58 

V. 

Ex Machina 





47 

VI. 

The End of Solitude 





60 

VII. 

Obsession . 





71 

VIII. 

A Change Impends . 





80 

IX. 

Nonresistance . 





88 

X. 

Driving Head-on 





102 

XI. 

The Breakers . 





112 

XII. 

A Life Line . 





122 

XIII. 

Letters from a Little Girl 




157 

XIV. 

A Journey Begins . 





157 

XV. 

The Locked House . 





162 

XVI. 

Scheherazade . 





180 

XVII. 

A White Skirt 





193 

XVIII. 

By Radio . 





202 


xi 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

XIX. 

The Captain of the Volhynia 

• 

, 

PAGE 

216 

XX. 

The Drop of Irish 

« 

• 

• 

223 

XXI. 

Method and Foresight . 

• 

• 

* 

239 

XXII. 

Two Thirteen 

• 

• 

• 

246 

XXIII. 

On His Way . 

• 

• 

• 

253 

XXIV. 

The Road to Paris 

# 

• 

• 

261 

XXV. 

Cup and Lip . 

• 

« 

• 

280 

XXVI. 

Rue Soleil d’Or . 

• 

• 

0 

290 

XXVII. 

From Four to Five 

• 

• 

• 

305 

XXVIII. 

Together 

• 

• 

. 

312 

XXIX. 

En Famille . 



• 

325 

XXX. 

Jardin Russe 

• 

« 

• 

337 

XXXI. 

The Cafe des Bulgars . 

• 

• 

• 

347 

XXXII. 

The Cercle Extranatio: 

(lALB 


• 

358 

XXXIII. 

A Rat Hunt . 



. 

377 

XXXIV. 

Sunrise .... 

• 

• 

. 

395 

XXXV. 

The First Day 

# 

• 


410 


THE DARK STAR 


THE DARK STAR 


PREFACE 

CHILDREN OF THE STAR 

Not the dark companion of Sirius, brightest of all 
stars — not our own chill and spectral planet rushing 
toward Vega in the constellation of Lyra — ^presided at 
the birth of millions born to corroborate a bloody 
horoscope. 

But a Dark Star, speeding unseen through space, 
known to the ancients, by them called Erlik, after the 
Prince of Darkness, ruled at the birth of those myriad 
souls destined to be engulfed in the earthquake of the 
ages, or flung by it out of the ordered pathway of their 
lives into strange byways, stranger highways — into 
deeps and deserts never dreamed of. 

Also one of the dozen odd temporary stars on record 
blazed up on that day, flared for a month or two, dwin- 
dled to a cinder, and went out. 

But the Dark Star Erlik, terribly immortal, sped on 
through space to complete a two-hundred-thousand- 
year circuit of the heavens, and begin anew an imme- 
morial journey by the will of the Most High. 

What spectroscope is to horoscope, destiny is to 
chance. The black star Erlik rushed through inter- 
stellar darkness unseen; those born under its violent 
augury squalled in their cradles, or, thumb in mouth, 
slumbered the dreamless slumber of the newly born, 
xvii 


THE DARK STAR 


One of these, a tiny girl baby, fussed and fidgeted in 
her mother’s arms, tortured by prickly heat when the 
hot winds blew through Trebizond. 

Overhead vultures circled ; a stein-adler, cleaving the 
blue, looked down where the surf made a thin white 
line along the coast, then set his lofty course for 
China. 

Thousands of miles to the westward, a little boy of 
eight gazed out across the ruffled waters of the mill 
pond at Neeland’s Mills, and wondered whether the 
ocean might not look that way. 

And, wondering, with the salt sea effervescence work- 
ing ^n his inland-born body, he fitted a cork to his fish- 
ing line and flung the baited hook far out across the 
ripples. Then he seated himself on the parapet of the 
stone bridge and waited for monsters of the deep to 
come. 

And again, off Seraglio Point, men were rowing in a 
boat ; and a corded sack lay in the stern, horridly and 
limply heavy. 

There was also a box lying in the boat, oddly bound 
and clamped with metal which glistened like silver under 
the Eastern stars when the waves of the Bosporus 
dashed high, and the flying scud rained down on box 
and sack and the red-capped rowers. 

In Petrograd a little girl of twelve was learning to 
eat other things than sour milk and cheese ; learning to 
ride otherwise than like a demon on a Cossack saddle ; 
learning deportment, too, and languages, and social 
graces and the fine arts. And, most thoroughly of all, 
the little girl was learning how deathless should be her 
hatred for the Turkish Empire and all its works ; and 
xviii 


PREFACE 


how only less perfect than our Lord in Paradise was 
the Czar on his throne amid that earthly paradise 
known as “All the Russias.” 

Her little brother was learning these things, too, in 
the Corps of Officers. Also he was already proficient 
on the balalaika. 

"'M^d again, in the mountains of a conquered province, 
the little daughter of a gamekeeper to nobility was 
preparing to emigrate with her father to a new home 
in the Western world, where she would learn to per- 
form miracles with rifle and revolver, and where the 
beauty of the hermit thrush’s song would startle 
her into comparing it to the beauty of her own un- 
tried voice. But to her father, and to her, the most 
beautiful thing in all the world was love of Father- 
land. 

Over these, and millions of others, brooded the spell 
of the Dark Star. Even the world itself lay under it, 
vaguely uneasy, sometimes startled to momentary seis- 
mic panic. Then, ere mundane self-control restored 
terrestrial equilibrium, a few mountains exploded, an 
island or two lay shattered by earthquake, boiling mud 
and pumice blotted out one city; earth-shock and fire 
another ; a tidal wave a third. 

But the world settled down and balanced itself once 
more on the edge of the perpetual abyss into which it 
must fall some day; the invisible shadow of the Dark 
Star swept it at intervals when some far and nameless 
sun blazed out unseen; days dawned; the sun of the 
solar system rose furtively each day and hung around 
the heavens until that dusky huntress. Night, chased 
him once more beyond the earth’s horizon. 

xix 


THE DARK STAB 


The shadow of the Dark Star was always there, 
though none saw it in sunshine or in moonlight, or in 
the silvery lustre of the planets. 

A boy, born under it, stood outside the fringe of 
willow and alder, through which moved two English 
setters followed and controlled by the boy’s father. 

‘‘Mark!” called the father. 

Out oj the willows like a feathered bomb burst sTAg 
grouse, and the green foliage that barred its flight 
seemed to explode as the strong bird sheered out into 
the sunshine. 

The boy’s gun, slanting upward at thirty degrees, 
glittered in the sun an instant, then the left barrel 
spoke; and the grouse, as though struck by lightning 
in mid-air, stopped with a jerk, then slanted swiftly 
and struck the ground. 

“Dead I” cried the boy, as a setter appeared, leading 
on straight to the heavy mass of feathers lying on the 
pasture grass. 

“Clean work, Jim,” said his father, strolling out of 
the willows. “But wasn’t it a bit risky, considering the 
little girl yonder 

“Father !” exclaimed the boy, very red. “I never even 
saw her. I’m ashamed.” 

They stood looking across the pasture, where a little 
girl in a pink gingham dress lingered watching them, 
evidently lured by her curiosity from the old house at 
the crossroads just beyond. 

Jim Neeland, still red with mortification, took the 
big cock-grouse from the dog which brought it — a 
tender-mouthed, beautifully trained Belton, who stood 
with his feathered offering in his jaws, very serious, 
very proud, awaiting praise from the Neelands, father 
and son. 


XX 


PREFACE 


Neeland senior “drew” the bird and distributed the 
sacrifice impartially between both dogs — it being the 
custom of the country. 

Neeland junior broke his gun, replaced the exploded 
shell, content indeed with his one hundred per cent per- 
formance. 

“Better run over and speak to the little girl, Jim,” 
suggested old Dick Neeland, as he motioned the dogs 
into covert again. 

So Jim ran lightly across the stony, clover-set 
ground to where the little girl roamed along the old 
snake fence, picking berries sometimes, sometimes 
watching the sportsmen out of shy, golden-grey 
eyes. 

“Little girl,” he said, “I’m afraid the shot from my 
gun came rattling rather close to you that time. 
You’ll have to be careful. I’ve noticed you here be- 
fore. It won’t do; you’ll have to keep out of range 
of those bushes, because when we’re inside we can’t see 
exactly where we’re firing.” 

The child said nothing. She looked up at the boy, 
smiled shyly, then, with much composure, began her 
retreat, not neglecting any tempting blackberry on the 
way. 

The sun hung low over the hazy Gayfield hills ; the 
beeches and oaks of Mohawk County burned brown and 
crimson; silver birches supported their delicate cano- 
pies of burnt gold; and imperial white pines clothed 
hill and vale in a stately robe of green. 

Jim Neeland forgot the child — or remembered her 
only to exercise caution in the Brookhollow covert 

The little girl Ruhannah, who had once fidgeted with 
prickly heat in her mother’s arms outside the walls of 
Trebizond, did not forget this easily smiling, tall young 
xxi 


THE DARK STAR 


fellow — a grown man to her — who had come across the 
pasture lot to warn her. 

But it was many a day before they met again, though 
these two also had been born under the invisible shadow 
of the Dark Star. But the shadow of Erlik is always 
passing like swift lightning across the Phantom Planet 
which has fled the other way since Time was born. 

Allahou Ehher, 0 Tchinguiz Khagan! 

A native Mongol missionary said to Ruhannah’s 
father: 

‘‘As the chronicles of the Eighurs have it, long ago 
there fell metal from the Black Racer of the skies ; the 
first dagger was made of it ; and the first image of the 
Prince of Darkness. These pass from Kurd to Cossack 
by theft, by gift, by loss; they pass from nation to 
nation by accident, which is Divine design. 

“And where they remain, war is. And lasts until 
image and dagger are carried to another land where 
war shall be. But where there is war, only the predes- 
tined suffer — those born under Erlik — children of the 
Dark Star.” 

“I thought,” said the Reverend Wilbour Carew, “that 
my brother had confessed Christ.” 

“I am but repeating to you what my father be- 
lieved; and Temujin before him,” replied the native 
convert, his remote gaze lost in reflection. 

His eyes were quite little and coloured like a lion’s ; 
and sometimes^ in deep reverie, the corners of his upper 
lip twitched. 

This happened when Ruhannah lay fretting in her 
mother’s arms, and the hot wind blew on Trebizond. 

Under the Da,rk Star, too, a boy grew up in Minetta 
Lane, not less combative than other ragged boys about 
xxii 

> 


PREFACE 


him, but he was inclined to arrange and superintend 
fist fights rather than to participate in battle, except 
with his wits. 

His name was Eddie Brandes; his first fortune of 
three dollars was amassed at craps ; he became a hang- 
er-on in ward poHtics, at race-tracks, stable, club, 
squared ring, vaudeville, burlesque. Long Acre at- 
tracted him — but always the gambling end of the oper- 
ation. 

Which predilection, with its years of ups and downs, 
landed him one day in Western Canada with an ‘‘Un- 
known” to match against an Athabasca blacksmith, 
and a training camp as the prospect for the next six 
weeks. 

There lived there, gradually dying, one Albrecht Du- 
mont, lately head gamekeeper to nobility in the moun- 
tains of a Lost Province, and wearing the Iron Cross 
of 1870 on the ruins of a gigantic and bony chest, now 
as hollow as a Gothic ruin. 

And if, like a thousand fellow patriots, he had been 
ordered to the Western World to watch and report to 
his Government the trend and tendency of that West- 
ern, English-speaking world, only his Government and 
his daughter knew it — a child of the Dark Star now 
grown to early womanhood, with a voice like a hermit 
thrush and the skill of a sorceress with anything that 
sped a bullet. 

Before the Unknown was quite ready to meet the 
Athabasca blacksmith, Albrecht Dumont, dying faster 
now, signed his last report to the Government at Ber- 
lin, which his daughter Use had written for him — some- 
thing about Canadian canals and stupid Yankees and 
their greed, indifference, cowardice, and sloth. 

xxiii 


THE DARK STAR 


Dumont’s mind wandered: 

“After the well-born Herr Gott relieves me at my 
post,” he whispered, “do thou pick up my burden and 
stand guard, little Use.” 

“Yes, father.” 

“Thy sacred promise.'^” 

“My promise.” 

The next day Dumont felt better than he had felt 
for a year. 

“Use, who is the short and broadly constructed 
American who comes now already every day to see thee 
and to hear thee sing?” 

“His name is Eddie Brandes.” 

“He is of the fight geselhchaft, not?” 

“He should gain much money by the fight. A thea- 
tre in Chicago may he willingly control, in which light 
opera shall be given.” 

“Is it for that he hears so willingly thy voice 

“It is for that. . . . And love.” 

“And what of Herr Max Venem, who has asked of 
me thy little hand in marriage?” 

The girl was silent. 

“Thou dost not love him?” 

“No.” 

Toward sunset, Dumont, lying by the window, opened 
his eyes of a dying Lammergeier : 

“My Use.” 

“Father.?” 

“What has thou to this man said .?” 

“That I will be engaged to him if thou approve.” 

“He has gained the fight?” 

“Today. . . . And many thousand dollars. The 
xxiv 


PREFACE 


theatre in Chicago is his when he desires. Riches, lei- 
sure, opportunity to study for a career upon his stage, 
are mine if I desire.” 

“Dost thou desire this, little Use?” 

“Yes.” 

“And the man Venem who has followed thee so long?” 

“I cannot be what he would have me — a Hausfrau — 
to mend his linen for my board and lodging.” 

“And the Fatherland which placed me here on out- 
post 

“I take thy place when God relieves thee.” 

“aS'o isfs recht! . . • Griis Gott — Use ” 

Among the German settlers a five-piece brass band 
had been organised the year before. 

It marched at the funeral of Albrecht Dumont, lately 
head gamekeeper to nobility in the mountains of a 
long-lost province. 

Three months later Use Dumont arrived in Chicago 
to marry Eddie Brandes. One Benjamin Stull was 
best man. Others present included “Captain” Quint, 
“Doc” Curfoot, “Parson” Smawley, Abe Gordon — 
friends of the bridegroom. 

Invited by the bride, among others were Theodor 
Weishelm, the Hon. Charles Wilson, M.P., and Herr 
Johann Kestner, a wealthy gentleman from Leipsic 
seeking safe and promising investments in Canada and 
the United States. 

A year later Use Dumont Brandes, assuming the 
stage name of Minna Minti, sang the role of Bettma 
in “The Mascotte,” at the Brandes Theatre in Chicago. 

A year later, when she created the part of Kathi in 
“The White Horse,” Max Venem sent word to her that 


XXV 


THE BARK STAR 


she would live to see her husband lying in the gutter 
under his heel. Which made the girl unhappy in her 
triumph. 

But Venem hunted up Abe Grittlefeld and told him 
very coolly that he meant to ruin Brandes. 

And within a month the latest public favourite, Minna 
Minti, sat in her dressing-room, wet-eyed, enraged, with 
the reports of Venem’s private detectives locked in the 
drawer of her dressing table, and the curtain waiting. 

So complex was life already becoming to these few 
among the million children of the Dark Star Erlik — to 
everyone, from the child that fretted in its mother’s 
arms under the hot wind near Trebizond, to a deposed 
Sultan, cowering behind the ivory screen in his zenana,, 
weeping tears that rolled like oil over his fat jowl to 
which still adhered the powdered sugar of a Turkish 
sweetmeat. 

Allahou Ekber, Khodja; God is great. Great also, 
Ande, is Ali, the Fourth Caliph, cousin-companion of 
Mahomet the Prophet. But, O tougtcJii, be thy name 
Niaz and thy surname Bai*, for Prince Erlik speeds on 
his Dark Star, and beneath the end of the argument l^e- 
tween those two last survivors of a burnt-out world — 
behold! The sword! 


CHAPTER I 


THE WONDER-BOX 

As long as she could remember she had been per- 
mitted to play with the contents of the late Herr 
Conrad Wilner’s wonder-box. The programme on 
such occasions varied little; the child was permitted 
to rummage among the treasures in the box until she 
had satisfied her perennial curiosity; conversation with 
her absent-minded father ensued, which ultimately in- 
cluded a personal narrative, dragged out piecemeal from 
the reticent, dreamy invalid. Then always a few pages 
of the diary kept by the late Herr Wilner were read as 
a bedtime story. And bath and bed and dreamland fol- 
lowed. That was the invariable routine, now once more 
in full swing. 

Her father lay on his invalid’s chair, reading; his 
rubber-shod crutches rested against the wall, within 
easy reach. By him, beside the kerosene lamp, her 
mother sat, mending her child’s stockings and under- 
wear. 

Outside the circle of lamplight the incandescent eyes 
of the stove glowed steadily through the semi-dusk; and 
the child, always fascinated by anything that aroused 
her imagination, lifted her gaze furtively from time to 
time to convince herself that it really was the big, fa- 
miliar stove which glared redly back at her, and not 

1 


THE DARK STAR 


a dragon into which her creative fancy had so often 
transformed it. 

Reassured, she continued to explore the contents of 
the wonder-box — a toy she preferred to her doll, hut 
not to her beloved set of water-colours and crayon pen- 
cils. 

Some centuries ago Pandora’s box let loose a world 
of troubles; Herr Wilner’s box apparently contained 
only pleasure for a little child whose pleasures were 
mostly of her own invention. 

It was a curious old box, made of olive wood and 
bound with bands of some lacquered silvery metal to 
make it strong — rupee silver, perhaps — strangely 
wrought with Arabic characters engraved and in shal- 
low relief. It had handles on either side, like a sea- 
chest; a silver-lacquered lock and hasp which retained 
traces of violent usage; and six heavy strap hinges of 
the same lacquered metal. 

Within it the little child knew that a most fascinating 
collection of articles was to be discovered, taken out 
one by one with greatest care, played with discreetly, 
and, at her mother’s command, returned to their sev- 
eral places in Herr Wilner’s box. 

There were, in this box, two rather murderous-look- 
ing Kurdish daggers in sheaths of fretted silver — never 
to be unsheathed, it was solemnly understood, except 
by the child’s father. 

There was a pair of German army revolvers of the 
pattern of 1900, the unexploded cartridges of which 
had long since been extracted and cautiously thrown 
into the mill pond by the child’s mother, much to the 
surprise, no doubt, of the pickerel and sunfish. 

There were writing materials of sandalwood, a few 
sea shells, a dozen books in German with many steel 


THE WONDER-BOX 


plate engravings; also a red Turkish fez with a dark 
blue tassel; two pairs of gold-rimmed spectacles; sev- 
eral tobacco pipes of Dresden porcelain, a case full of 
instruments for mechanical drawing, a thick blank book 
bound in calf and containing the diary of the late 
Herr Wilner down to within a few minutes before his 
death. 

Also there was a figure in bronze, encrusted with tar- 
nished gold and faded traces of polychrome decoration. 

Hrlik, the Yellow Devil, as Herr Wilner called it, 
seemed too heavy to be a hollow casting, and yet, when 
shaken, something within rattled faintly, as though 
when the molten metal was cooling a fissure formed 
inside, into which a few loose fragments of bronze had 
fallen. 

It apparently had not been made to represent any 
beni^ Chinese god ; the aspect of the yellow figure was 
anything but benevolent. The features were terrific; 
scowls infested its grotesque countenance; threatening 
brows bent inward ; angry eyes rolled in apparent fury ; 
its double gesture with sword and javelin was violent 
and almost humorously menacing. And Ruhannah 
adored it. 

For a little while the child played her usual game of 
frightening her doll with the Yellow Devil and then 
rescuing her by the aid of a fairy prince which she her- 
self had designed, smeared with water-colours, and cut 
out with scissors from a piece of cardboard. 

After a time she turned to the remaining treasures 
in the wonder-box. These consisted of several volumes 
containing photographs, others full of sketches in pen- 
cil and water-colour, and a thick roll of glazed linen 
scrolls covered with designs in India ink. 

The photographs were of all sorts — landscapes, riv- 

3 


THE BARK STAR 


ers, ships in dock, dry dock, and at sea; lighthouses, 
forts, horses carrying soldiers armed with lances and 
wearing the red fez; artillery on the march, infantry, 
groups of officers, all wearing the same sort of fez 
which lay there in Herr Wilner’s box of olive wood. 

There were drawings, too — sketches of cannon, of 
rifles, of swords; drawings of soldiers in various gay 
uniforms, all carefully coloured by hand. There were 
pictures of ships, from the sterns of which the crescent 
flag floated lazily; sketches of great, ugly-looking ob- 
jects which her father explained were Turkish iron- 
clads. The name “ironclad” always sounded menacing 
and formidable to the child, and the forbidding pictures 
fascinated her. 

Then there were scores and scores of scrolls made 
out of slippery white linen, on which had been drawn 
all sorts of most amazing geometrical designs in ink. 

“Plans,” her father explained vaguely. And, when 
pressed by reiterated questions: “Plans for military 
works, I believe — forts, docks, barracks, fortified cuts 
and bridges. You are not yet quite old enough to un- 
derstand, Ruhannah.” 

“Who did draw them, daddy?” 

“A German friend of mine, Herr Conrad Wilner.” 

“What for?” 

“I think his master sent him to Turkey to make those 
pictures.” 

“For the Sultan?” 

“No; for his Emperor.” 

“Why?” 

“I don’t exactly know. Rue.” 

At this stage of the conversation her father usually 
laid aside his book and composed himself for the inev 
itable narrative soon to be demanded of him. 

4 


THE WONDER-BOX 


Then, although having heard the story many times 
from her crippled father’s lips, but never weary of the 
repetition, the child’s eyes would grow round and very 
solemn in preparation for her next and inevitable ques- 
tion : 

“And did Herr Wilner die, daddy?” 

“Yes, dear.” 

“Tell me!” 

“Well, it was when I was a missionary in the 
Trebizond district, and your mother and I 
went ” 

“And me, daddy? And me, too!” 

“Yes; you were a little baby in arms. And we all 
went to Gallipoli to attend the opening of a beautiful 
new school which was built for little Mohammedan con- 
verts to Christianity ” 

“Did I see those little Christian children, daddy ?” 

“Yes, you saw them. But you are too young to re- 
member.” 

“Tell me. Don’t stop!” 

“Then listen attentively without interrupting, Rue: 
Your mother and you and I went to Gallipoli; and my 
friend, Herr Wilner, who had been staying with us at 
a town called Tchardak, came along with us to attend 
the opening of the American school. 

“And the night we arrived there was trouble. The 
Turkish people, urged on by some bad officials in the 
Sanjak, came with guns and swords and spears and 
set fire to the mission school. 

“They did not offer to harm us. We had already 
collected our converts and our personal baggage. Our 
caravan was starting. The mob might not have done 
anything worse than burn the school if Herr Wilner 
had not lost his temper and threatened them with a 
5 


THE DARK STAR 


dog whip. Then they killed him with stones, there in 
the walled yard.” 

At this point in the tragedy, the eagerly awaited 
and ardently desired shivers passed up and down the 
child’s back. 

“0 — oh! Did they kill him dead?** 

«Yes, dear.” 

‘‘Was he a martyr.^” 

“In a way he was a martyr to his duty, I suppose. 
At least I gather so from his diary and from what he 
once told me of his life.” 

“And then what happened.^ Tell me, daddy.” 

“A Greek steamer took us and our baggage to Trebi- 
zond.” 

“And what then?” 

“And then, a year later, the terrible massacre at our 
Trebizond mission occurred ” 

That was what the child was waiting for. 

“I know!” she interrupted eagerly. “The wicked 
Turks and the cruel Kurds did come galloping and 
shouting ‘Allah!’ And all the poor, converted people 
became martyrs. And God loves martyrs, doesn’t 
He?” 

“Yes, dear 

“And then they did kill all the poor little Christian 
children!” exclaimed the child excitedly. “And they 
did cut you with swords and guns ! And then the kind 
sailors with the American flag took you and mamma and 
me to a ship and saved us by the grace of our Lord 
Jesus !” 

“Yes, dear ” 

“Tell me!” 

“That is all ” 

“No; you walk on two crutches, and you cannot be 

6 


THE WONDER-BOX 


a missionary any more because you are sick all the time ! 
Tell me, daddy!” 

“Yes. And that is all, Rue 

“Oh, no! Please! Tell me! . . . And then, don’t 
you remember how the brave British sailors and our 
brave American sailors pointed their cannon at the 
/-ronclads, and they said, ‘Do not shoot or we shall 
shoot you to pieces.’ And then the brave American 
sailors went on shore and brought back some poor little 
wounded converted children, and your baggage and the 
magic box of Herr Wilner !” 

“Yes, dear. And now that is enough tonight 

“Oh, daddy, you must first read in the di-a-ry which 
Herr Wilner made!” 

“Bring me the book, Rue.” 

With an interest forever new, the Carew family pre- 
pared to listen to the words written by a strange man 
who had died only a few moments after he had made the 
last entry in the book — ^before even the ink was entirely 
dry on the pages. 

The child, sitting cross-legged on the floor, clasped 
her little hands tightly ; her mother laid aside her sew- 
ing, folded it, and placed it in her lap; her father 
searched through the pencilled translation which he had 
written in between the lines of German script, found 
where he had left off the time before, then continued 
the diary of Herr Conrad Wilner, deceased: 

March S, My original plans have been sent to the Yildiz 
Palace. My duplicates are to go to Berlin when a 
messenger from our Embassy arrives. Murad Bey 
knows this. I am sorry he knows it. But nobody 
except myself is aware that I have a third set of 
plans carefully hidden. 

March 4* ^^7 ^i^ Murad’s men setting wire en- 

7 


THE DARK STAR 


tanglements under water; two Turkish destroyers 
patrolling the entrance to the bay, and cavalry patrols 
on the heights to warn away the curious. 

March 6. Forts Alamout and Shah Abbas are being re- 
constructed from the new plans. Wired areas under 
water and along the coves and shoals are being plotted. 
Murad Bey is unusually polite and effusive, con- 
versing with me in German and French. A spidery 
man and very dangerous. 

March 7. A strange and tragic affair last night. The 
heat being severe, I left my tent about midnight 
and went down to the dock where my little sail- 
boat lay, with the object of cooling myself on the 
water. There was a hot land breeze; I sailed out 
into the bay and cruised north along the coves which 
I have wired. As I rounded a little rocky point I 
was surprised to see in the moonlight, very near, 
a steam yacht at anchor, carrying no lights. The 
longer I looked at her the more certain I became 
that I was gazing at the Imperial yacht. I had no 
idea what the yacht might be doing here; I ran my 
sailboat close under the overhanging rocks and an- 
chored. Then I saw a small boat in the moonlight, 
pulling from the yacht toward shore, where the 
crescent cove had already been thoroughly staked and 
the bottom closely covered with barbed wire as far 
as the edge of the deep channel which curves in 
here like a scimitar. 

It must have been that the people in the boat mis- 
calculated the location of the channel, for they were 
well over the sunken barbed wire when they lifted 
and threw overboard what they had come there to get 
rid of — two dark bulks that splashed. 

I watched the boat pull back to the Imperial yacht. 
A little later the yacht weighed anchor and steamed 
northward, burning no lights. Only the red reflec- 
tion tinging the smoke from her stacks was visible. 
I watched her until she was lost in the moonlight, 
thinking all the while of those weighted sacks so often 
dropped overboard along the Bosporus and off Seraglio 
Point from that same Imperial yacht. 

8 


THE WONDER-BOX 


When the steamer had disappeared, I got out my 
sweeps and rowed for the place where the dark 
objects had been dropped overboard. I knew that 
they must be resting somewhere on the closely criss- 
crossed mesh of wires just below the surface of the 
water; but I probed for an hour before I located any- 
thing. Another hour passed in trying to hook into 
the object with the little three-fluked grapnel which 
I used as an anchor. I got hold of something 
finally ; a heavy chest of olive wood bound with metal ; 
but I had to rig a tackle before I could hoist it 
aboard. 

Then I cast out again; and very soon my grapnel 
hooked into what I expected — a canvas sack, weighted 
with a round shot. When I got it aboard, I hesitated 
a long while before opening it. Finally I made a long 
slit in the canvas with my knife. . . . 

She was very young — ^not over sixteen, I think, and 
she was really beautiful, even under her wet, dark 
hair. She seemed to be a Caucasian girl — maybe a 
Georgian. She wore a small gold cross which hung 
from a gold cord around her neck. There was an- 
other, and tighter, cord around her neck, too. I cut 
the silk bowstring and closed and bound her eyes 
with my handkerchief before I rowed out a little 
farther and lowered her into the deep channel which 
cuts eastward here like the scimitar of that true be- 
liever, Abdul Hamid. 

Then I hoisted sail and beat up slowly toward my 
little dock under a moon which had become ghastly 
under the pallid aura of a gathering storm 


‘‘A poor dead young lady!” interrupted the child, 
clasping her hands more tightly. ‘‘Did the Sultan kill 
her, daddy 

“It seems so, Ruhannah.” 

“Why.?” 

“I don’t know. He was a very cruel and wicked Sul- 
tan.” 


9 


THE DARK STAR 


“I don’t see why he killed the beautiful poor dead 
lady.” 

‘‘If you will listen and not interrupt, you shall learn 
why.” 

“And was the chest that Herr Wilner pulled up the 
very same chest that is here on the floor beside me.^” 
insisted the child. 

“The very same. Now listen, Rue, and I shall read 
a little more in Herr Wilner’s diary, and then you must 
have your bath and be put to bed ” 

“Please read, daddy!” 

The Reverend Wilbour Carew turned the page and 
quietly continued: 

March 20. In my own quarters at Trebizond again^ and 
rid of Murad for a while. 

A canvas cover and rope handles concealed the 
character of my olive wood chest. I do not believe 
anybody suspects it to be anything except one of 
the various boxes containing my own personal effects. 
I shall open it tonight with a file and chisel, if 
possible. 

March 21. The contents of the chest reveal something 
of the tragedy. The box is full of letters written 
in Russian, and full of stones which weigh col- 
lectively a hundred pounds at least. There is nothing 
else in the chest except a broken Ikon and a bronze 
figure of Erlik, a Yildiz relic, no doubt, of some 
Kurdish raid into Mongolia, and probably placed be- 
side the dead girl by her murderers in derision. I 
am translating the letters and arranging them in 
sequence. 

March 25. I have translated the letters. The dead girl’s 
name was evidently Tatyana, one of several children 
of some Cossack chief or petty prince, and on the 
eve of her marriage to a young officer named Mitya, 
the Kurds raided the town. They carried poor Taty- 
ana off along with her wedding chest — the chest I 
fished up with my grapnel. 

10 


THE WONDER-BOX 


In brief, the chest and the girl found their way 
into Abdul’s seraglio. The letters of the dead girl — 
which were written and entrusted probably to a faith- 
less slave, but which evidently never left the seraglio 
— throw some light on the tragedy, for they breathe 
indignation and contempt of Islam, and call on her 
affianced, on her parents, and on her people to rescue 
her and avenge her. 

And after a while, no doubt Abdul tired of read- 
ing fierce, unreconciled little Tatyana’s stolen letters, 
and simply ended the matter by having her bow- 
strung and dumped overboard in a sack, together with 
her marriage chest, her letters, and the Yellow Devil 
in bronze as a final insult. 

She seems to have had a sister, Naia, thirteen years 
old, betrothed to a Prince Mistchenka, a cavalry officer 
in the Terek Cossacks. Her father had been Hetman 
of the Don Cossacks before the Emperor Nicholas re- 
served that title for Imperial use. And she ended in 
a sack off Gallipoli! That is the story of Tatyana and 
her wedding chest. 

March S9. Murad arrived, murderously bland and assidu- 
ous in his solicitude for my health and comfort. I 
am almost positive he knows that I fished up some- 
thing from Cove No. 37 under the theoretical guns 
of theoretical Fort Osman, both long plotted out but 
long delayed. 

April 6. My duplicate plans for Gallipoli have been 
stolen. I have a third set still. Colonel Murad Bey 
is not to be trusted. My position is awkward and is 
becoming serious. There is no faith to be placed in 
Abdul Hamid. My credentials, the secret agreement 
with my Government, are no longer regarded even 
with toleration in the Yildiz Kiosque. A hundred 
insignificant incidents prove it every day. And if 
Abdul dare not break with Germany it is only be- 
cause he is not yet ready to defy the Young Turk 
party. The British Embassy is very active and 
bothers me a great deal. 

April 10. My secret correspondence with Enver Bey has 
been discovered, and my letters opened. This is a 
11 


THE DARK STAR 


very bad business. I have notified my Government 
that the Turkish Government does not want me here; 
that the plan of a Germanised Turkish army is be- 
coming objectionable to the Porte; that the duplicate 
plans of our engineers for the Dardanelles and the 
Gallipoli Peninsula have been stolen. 

April IS. A secret interview with Enver Bey^ who 
promises that our ideas shall be carried out when 
his party comes into power. Evidently he does not 
know that my duplicates have been stolen. 

Troubles threaten in the Vilayet of Trebizond, 
where is an American Mission. I fear that our emis- 
saries and the emissaries of Enver Bey are delib- 
erately fomenting disorders because Americans are 
not desired by our Government. Enver denies this; 
but it is idle to believe anyone in this country. 

April 16. Another interview with Enver Bey. His scheme 
is flatly revolutionary, namely, the deposition of Abdul, 
a secret alliance, offensive and defensive, with us; 
the Germanisation of the Turkish army and navy; 
the fortification of the Gallipoli district according 
to our plans; a steadily increasing pressure on Serbia; 
a final reckoning with Russia which is definitely to 
settle the status of Albania and Serbia and leave the 
Balkan grouping to be settled between Austria, Ger- 
many, and Turkey. 

I spoke several times about India and Egypt, but 
he does not desire to arouse England unless she in- 
terferes. 

I spoke also of Abdul Hamid’s secret and growing 
fear of Germany, and his increasing inclination 
toward England once more. 

No trace of my stolen plans. The originals are 
in the Yildiz Palace. I have a third set secreted, 
about which nobody knows. 

April 21. I have been summoned to the Yildiz Palace. It 
possibly means my assassination. I have confided my 
box of data, photographs, and plans, to the Reverend 
Wilbour. Carew, an American missionary in the 
Trebizond sanjak. 

There are rumours that Abdul has become mentally 


THE WONDER-BOX 


unhinged through dread of assassination. One of 
his own aides-de-camp, while being granted an audi- 
ence in the Yildiz, made a sudden and abrupt move- 
ment to find his handkerchief ; and Abdul Hamid 
whipped out a pistol and shot him dead. This is 
authentic. 

April SO. Back at Tchardak with my good missionary and 
his wife. A strange interview with Abdul. There 
were twenty French clocks in the room, all going and 
all striking at various intervals. The walls were set 
with French mirrors. 

Abdul’s cordiality was terrifying; the full original 
set of my Gallipoli plans was brought in. After a 
while, the Sultan reminded me that the plans were 
in duplicate, and asked me where were these dupli- 
cates. What duplicity! But I said pleasantly that 
they were to be sent to General Staff Headquarters 
in Berlin. 

He pretended to understand that this was con- 
trary to the agreement, and insisted that the plans 
should first be sent to him for comparison. I merely 
referred him to his agreement with my Government. 
But all the while we were talking I was absolutely 
convinced that the stolen duplicates were at that mo- 
ment in the Yildiz Kiosque. Abdul must have known 
that I believed it. Yet we both merely smiled our 
confidence in each other. 

He seemed to be unusually good-natured and 
gracious, saying that no doubt I was quite right in 
sending the plans to Berlin. He spoke of Enver Bey 
cordially, and said he hoped to be reconciled to him 
and his friends very soon. When Abdul Hamid be- 
comes reconciled to anybody who disagrees with him, 
the latter is always dead. 

He asked me where I was going. I told him about 
the plans I was preparing for the Trebizond district. 
He offered me an escort of Kurdish cavalry, saying 
that he had been told the district was not very safe. 
I thanked him and declined his escort of assassins. 

I saw it all very plainly. Like a pirate captain, 
Abdul orders his crew to dig a secret hole for his 
13 


THE DARK STAR 


treasure, and when the hole is dug and the treasure 
hidden, he murders the men who hid it for him, 
so that they shall never betray its location. I am 
one of those men. That is what he means for me, 
who have given him his Gallipoli plans. No wonder 
that in England they call him Abdul the Damned! 

May 3, In the Bazaar at Tchardak yesterday two men 
tried to stab me. I got their daggers, but they es- 
caped in the confusion. Murad called to express hor- 
ror and regret. Yes; regret that I had not been 
murdered. 

May 5, I have written to my Government that my use- 
fulness here seems to be ended; that my life is in 
hourly danger; that I desire to be more thoroughly 
informed concerning the relations between Berlin and 
the Yildiz Palace. 

May 6, I am in disgrace. My Government is furious be- 
cause my correspondence with Enver Bey has been 
stolen. The Porte has complained about me to Ber- 
lin; Berlin disowns me, disclaims all knowledge of 
my political activities outside of my engineering work. 

This is what failure to carry out secret instructions 
invariably brings— -desertion by the Government from 
which such instructions are received. In diplomacy, 
failure is a crime never forgiven. Abandoned by my 
Government I am now little better than an outlaw 
here. Two courses remain open to me — to go back 
in disgrace and live obscurely for the remainder of 
my life, or to risk my life by hanging on desperately 
here with an almost hopeless possibility before me of 
accomplishing something to serve my Government and 
rehabilitate myself. 

The matter of the stolen plans is being taken up 
by our Ambassador at the Sublime Porte. The British 
Embassy is suspected. What folly ! I possess a third 
set of plans. Our Embassy ought to send to Trebizond 
for them. I don't know what to do. 

May 12, A letter I wrote May 10 to the German Embassy 
has been stolen. I am now greatly worried about 
the third set of plans. It seems safest to include 
the box containing them among the baggage of the 
14 


THE WONDER-BOX 


American missionary, the Reverend Wilbour Carew; 
and, too, for me to seek shelter with him. 

As I am now afraid that an enemy may imper- 
sonate an official of the German Embassy, I have the 
missionary’s promise that he will retain and conceal 
the contents of my box until I instruct him other- 
wise. I am practically in hiding at his house, and 
in actual fear of my life. 

May 15. The missionary and his wife and baby travel 
to Gallipoli, where an American school for girls is 
about to be opened. 

Today, in a cafe, I noticed that the flies, swarm- 
ing on the edge of my coffee cup, fell into the saucer 
dead. I did not taste my coflfee. 

May 16. Last night a shot was fired through my door. 
I have decided to travel to Gallipoli with the mis- 
sionary. 

May 18. My groom stole and ate an orange from my 
breakfast tray. He is dead. 

May 20. The Reverend Mr. Carew and his wife are most 
kind and sympathetic. They are good people, simple, 
kindly, brave, faithful, and fearlessly devoted to God’s 
service in this vile land of treachery and lies. 

May 21. I have confessed to the Reverend Mr. Carew as 
I would confess to a priest in holy orders. I have 
told him all under pledge of secrecy. I told him 
also that the sanctuary he oflTers might be violated 
with evil consequences to him; and that I would travel 
as far as Gallipoli with him and then leave. But 
the kind, courageous missionary and his wife insist 
that I remain under the protection which he says the 
flag of his country affords me. If I could only get 
my third set of plans out of the country! 

May 22. Today my coffee was again poisoned. I don’t 
know what prevented me from tasting it — some vague 
premonition. A pariah dog ate the bread I soaked 
in it, and died before he could yelp. 

It looks to me as though my end were inevitable. 
Today I gave my bronze figure of Erlik, the Yellow 
Devil, to Mrs. Carew to keep as a dowry for her 
little daughter, now a baby in arms. If it is hollow, 
15 


THE DARK STAR 


as I feel sure, there are certain to be one or two 
jewels in it. And the figure itself might bring five 
hundred marks at an antiquary’s. 

May 30. Arrived at the Gallipoli mission. Three Turkish 
ironclads lying close inshore. A British cruiser, the 
Cobra, and an American cruiser, the Oneida, ap- 
peared about sunset and anchored near the ironclads. 
The bugles on deck were plainly audible. If a Ger- 
man warship appears I shall carry my box on board. 
My only chance to rehabilitate myself is to get the 
third set of plans to Berlin. 

June 1. In the middle of the religious exercises with 
which the new school is being inaugurated, cries of 
“Allah” come from a great crowd which has gathered. 
From my window where I am writing I can see how 
insolent the attitude of this Mohammedan riffraff is 
becoming. They spit upon the ground — a pebble is 
tossed at a convert — a sudden shout of “Allah” — 
pushing and j ostling — a lighted torch blazes ! I take 
my whip of rhinoceros hide and go down into the 
court to put a stop to this insolence 

Her father slowly closed the book. 

“Daddy! Is that where poor Herr Wilner died.'*” 

“Yes, dear.” 

After a silence his wife said thoughtfully : 

“I have always considered it very strange that the 
German Government did not send for Herr Wilner’s 
papers.” 

“Probably they did, Mary. And very probably Mu- 
rad Bey told them that the papers had been destroyed.” 

“And you never believed it to be your duty to send 
the papers to the German Government.^” 

“No. It was an unholy alliance that Germany sought 
with that monster Abdul. And when Enver Pasha seized 
the reins of government such an alliance would have 
been none the less unholy. You know and so do I that 
if Germany did not actually incite the Armenian massa- 

16 


THE WONDER-BOX 


cres she at least was cognisant of preparations made 
to begin them. Germany is still hostile to all British 
or American missions, all Anglo-Saxon influence in 
Turkey. 

“No; I did not send Herr Wilner’s papers to Berlin; 
and the events of the last fifteen years have demon- 
strated that I was right in withholding them.” 

His wife nodded, laid aside her work basket, and 
rose. 

“Come, Ruhannah,” she said with decision; “put 
everything back into the wonder-box.” 

And, stooping, she lifted and laid away in it the 
scowling, menacing Yellow Devil. 

And so, every month or two, the wonder-box was 
opened for the child to play with, the same story told, 
extracts from the diary read; but these ceremonies, 
after a while, began to recur at lengthening intervals as 
the years passed and the child grew older. 

And finally it was left to her to open the box when 
she desired, and to read for herself the pencilled trans- 
lation of the diary, which her father had made during 
some of the idle and trying moments of his isolated and 
restricted life. And, when she had been going to school 
for some years, other and more vivid interests replaced 
her dolls and her wonder-box ; but not her beloved case 
of water-colours and crayon pencils. 


CHAPTER II 


BROOKHOLLOW 

The mother, shading the candle with her work-worn 
hand, looked down at the child in silence. The subdued 
light fell on a freckled cheek where dark lashes rested, 
on a slim neck and thin shoulders framed by a mass of 
short, curly chestnut hair. 

Though it was still dark, the mill whistle was blowing 
for six o’clock. Like a goblin horn it sounded omi- 
nously through Ruhannah’s dream. She stirred in her 
sleep; her mother stole across the room, closed the 
window, and went away carrying the candle with her. 

At seven the whistle blew again ; the child turned over 
and unclosed her eyes. A brassy light glimmered be- 
tween leafless apple branches outside her window. 
Through the frosty radiance of sunrise a blue jay 
screamed. 

Ruhannah cuddled deeper among the blankets and 
buried the tip of her chilly nose. But the grey eyes 
remained wide open and, under the faded quilt, her little 
ears were listening intently. 

Presently from the floor below came the expected 
summons : 

“Ruhannah !” 

“Oh, please, mother !” 

“It’s after seven ” 

“I know: I’ll be ready in time!” 

“It’s after seven. Rue!” 

“I’m so cold, mother dear!” 

18 


BROOKHOLLOW 


“I closed your window. You may bathe and dre&s 
down here.” 

“B-r-r-r ! I can see my own breath when I breathe !” 

“Come down and dress by the kitchen range,” re- 
peated her mother. “I’ve warm water all ready for 
you.” 

The brassy light behind the trees was becoming 
golden ; slim bluish shadows already stretched from the 
base of every tree across frozen fields dusted with 
snow. 

As usual, the lank black cat came walking into the 
room, its mysterious crystal-green eyes brilliant in the 
glowing light. 

Listening, the child heard her father moving heavily 
about in the adjoining room. 

Then, from below again: 

“Ruhannah !” 

“I’m going to get up, mother !” 

“Rue ! Obey me !” 

“I’m up! I’m on my way !” She sprang out amid a 
tempest of bedclothes, hopped gingerly across the 
chilly carpet, seized her garments in one hand, comb 
and toothbrush in the other, ran into the hallway and 
pattered downstairs. 

The cat followed leisurely, twitching a coal-black 
tail. 

“Mother, could I have my breakfast first I’m so 
hungry ” 

Her mother turned from the range and kissed her as 
she huddled close to it. The sheet of zinc underneath 
warmed her bare feet delightfully. She sighed with 
satisfaction, looked wistfully at the coffeepot simmer- 
ing, sniffed at the biscuits and sizzling ham. 

“Could I have one little taste before I^ 

19 


THE DARK STAR 


‘^Come, dear. There’s the basin. Bathe quickly, 
now.” 

Ruhannah frowned and cast a tragic glance upon the 
tin washtub on the kitchen floor. Presently she stole 
over, tested the water with her finger-tip, found it not 
unreasonably cold, dropped the night-dress from her 
frail shoulders, and stepped into the tub with a per- 
functory shiver — a thin, overgrown child of fifteen, with 
pipestem limbs and every rib anatomically apparent. 

Her hair, which had been cropped to shoulder length, 
seemed to turn from chestnut to bronze fire, gleaming 
and crackling under the comb which she hastily passed 
through it before twisting it up. 

‘^Quickly but thoroughly,” said her mother. 
‘‘Hasten, Rue.” 

Ruhannah seized soap and sponge, gasped, shut her 
grey eyes tightly, and fell to scrubbing with the fury 
of despair. 

“Don’t splash, dear ” 

“Did you warm my towel, mother — blindly stretch- 
ing out one thin and dripping arm. 

Her mother wrapped her in a big crash towel from 
head to foot. 

Later, pulling on stockings and shoes by the range, 
she managed to achieve a buttered biscuit at the same 
time, and was already betraying further designs upon 
another one when her mother sent her to set the table 
in the sitting-room. 

Thither sauntered Ruhannah, partly dressed still 
dressing. 

By the nickel-trimmed stove she completed her toilet, 
then hastily laid the breakfast cloth and arranged the 
china and plated tableware, and filled the water pitcher. 

Her father came in on his crutches ; she hurried from 

SO 


BROOKHOLLOW 


the table, syrup jug in one hand, cruet in the other, and 
lifted her face to be kissed ; then she brought hot plates, 
coffeepot, and platters, and seated herself at the 
table where her father and mother were waiting in 
silence. 

When she was seated her father folded his large, pal- 
lid, bony hands ; her mother clasped hers on the edge of 
the table, bowing her head; and Ruhannah imitated 
them. Between her fingers she could see the cat under 
the table, and she watched it arch its back and gently 
rub against her chair. 

“For what we are about to receive, make us grateful. 
Eternal Father. This day we should go hungry except 
for Thy bounty. Without presuming to importune 
Thee, may we ask Thee to remember all who awake 
hungry on this winter day. . . . Amen.” 

Ruhannah instantly became very busy with her 
breakfast. The cat beside her chair purred loudly and 
rose at intervals on its hind legs to twitch her dress ; and 
Ruhannah occasionally bestowed alms and conversation 
upon it. 

“Rue,” said her mother, “you should try to do better 
with your algebra this week.” 

“Yes, I do really mean to.” 

“Have you had any more bad-conduct marks.?” 

“Yes, mother.” 

Her father lifted his mild, dreamy eyes of an invalid. 
Her mother asked : 

“What for.?” 

“For wasting my time in study hour,” said the girl 
truthfully. 

“Were you drawing.?” 

“Yes, mother.” 

“Rue ! Again ! Why do you persist in drawing pic- 
21 


THE DARK STAR 


tures in your copy books when you have an hour’s les- 
son in drawing every week? Besides, you may draw 
pictures at home whenever you wish.” 

“I don’t exactly know why,” replied the girl slowly. 
“It just happens before I notice what I am doing. . . . 
Of course,” she explained, “I do recollect that I 
oughtn’t to be drawing in study hour. But that’s after 
I’ve begun, and then it seems a pity not to finish.” 

Her mother looked across the table at her husband: 

“Speak to her seriously, Wilbour.” 

The Reverend Mr. Carew looked solemnly at his long- 
legged and rapidly growing daughter, whose grey eyes 
gazed back into her father’s sallow visage. 

“Rue,” he said in his colourless voice, “try to get all 
you can out of your school. I haven’t sufficient means 
to educate you in drawing and in similar accomplish- 
ments. So get all you can out of your school. Because, 
some day, you will have to help yourself, and perhaps 
help us a little.” 

He bent his head with a detached air and sat gazing 
mildly at vacancy — already, perhaps, forgetting what 
the conversation was about. 

“Mother.?” 

“What, Rue.?” 

“What am I going to do to earn my living?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“Do you mean I must go into the mill like every- 
body else?” 

“There are other things. Girls work at many things 
in these days.” 

“What kind of things.?” 

“They may learn to keep accounts, help in 
shops ” 

“If father could afford it, couldn’t I learn to do 


BEOOKHOLLOW 


something more interesting? What do girls work at 
whose fathers can afford to let them learn how to 
work?” 

“They may become teachers, learn stenography and 
typewriting; they can, of course, become dressmakers; 
they can nurse ” 

“Mother!” 

“Yes?” 

“Could I choose the business of drawing pictures ? I 
know how!” 

“Dear, I don't believe it is practical to ” 

“Couldn’t I draw pictures for books and magazines? 
Everybody says I draw very nicely. You say so, too. 
Couldn’t I earn enough money to live on and to take 
care of you and father?” 

Wilbour Carew looked up from his reverie: 

“To learn to draw correctly and with taste,” he said 
in his gentle, pedantic voice, “requires a special training 
which we cannot afford to give you, Ruhannah.” 

“Must I wait till I’m twenty-five before I can have 
my money?” she asked for the hundredth time. “I do 
so need it to educate myself. Why did grandma do 
such a thing, mother?” 

“Your grandmother never supposed you would need 
the money until you were a grown woman, dear. Your 
father and I were young, vigorous, full of energy ; your 
father’s income was ample for us then.” 

“Have I got to marry a man before I can get enough 
money to take lessons in drawing with?” 

Her mother’s drawn smile was not very genuine. 
When a child asks such questions no mother finds it 
easy to smile. 

“If you marry, dear, it is not likely you’ll marry in 
)rder to take lessons in drawing. Twenty-five is not 
23 


THE DARK STAR 


old. If you still desire to study art you will be able 
to do so.” 

‘‘Twenty-five!” repeated Rue, aghast. “I’ll be an 
old woman.” 

“Many begin their life’s work at an older age ” 

“Mother! I’d rather marry somebody and begin to 
study art. Oh, donH you think that even now I could 
support myself by making pictures for magazines.^ 
Don’t you, mother dear.^” 

“Rue, as your father explained, a special course of 
instruction is necessary before one can become an ar- 
tist ” 

“But I do draw very nicely !” She slipped from her 
chair, ran to the old secretary where the accumulated 
masterpieces of her brief career were treasured, and 
brought them for her parents’ inspection, as she had 
brought them many times before. 

Her father looked at them listlessly; he did not un- 
derstand such things. Her mother took them one by 
one from Ruhannah’s eager hands and examined these 
grimy records of her daughter’s childhood. 

There were drawings of every description in pencil, 
in crayon, in mussy water-colours, done on scraps of 
paper of every shape and size. The mother knew them 
all by heart, every single one, but she examined each 
with a devotion and an interest forever new. 

There were many pictures of the cat; many of her 
parents, too — odd, shaky, smeared portraits all out of 
proportion, but usually recognisable. 

A few landscapes varied the collection — a view or 
two of the stone bridge opposite, a careful drawing of 
the ruined paper mill. But the majority of the sub- 
jects were purely imaginary; pictures of demons and 
angels, of damsels and fairy princes — paragons of 


BROOKHOLLOW 


beauty — with castles on adjacent crags and swans 
adorning convenient ponds. 

Her mother rose after a few moments, laid aside the 
pile of drawings, went to the kitchen and returned with 
her daughter’s schoolbooks and lunch basket. 

“Rue, you’ll be late again. Get on your rubbers 
immediately.” 

The child’s shabby winter coat was already too short 
in skirt and sleeve, and could be lengthened no further. 
She pulled the blue toboggan cap over her head, took a 
hasty osculatory leave of her father, seized books and 
lunch basket, and followed her mother to the door. 

Below the house the Brookhollow road ran south 
across an old stone bridge and around a hill to Gay- 
field, half a mile away. 

Rue, drawing on her woollen gloves, looked up at her 
mother. Her lip trembled very slightly. She said : 

“I shouldn’t know what to do if I couldn’t draw 
pictures. . . . When I draw a princess I mean her for 
myself. ... It is pleasant — to pretend to live with 
swans.” 

She opened the door, paused on the step; the frosty 
breath drifted from her lips. Then she looked back 
over her shoulder; her mother kissed her, held her 
tightly for a moment. 

“If I’m to be forbidden to draw pictures,” repeated 
the girl, “I don’t know what will become of me. Be- 
cause I really live there — in the pictures I make.” 

* We’ll talk it over this evening, darling. Don’t draw 
in study hour any more, will you.^” 

“I’ll try to remember, mother.” 

When the spindle-limbed, boyish figure had sped away 
beyond sight, Mrs. Carew shut the door, drew her wool 
25 


THE DARK STAR 


shawl closer, and returned slowly to the sitting-room. 
Her husband, deep in a padded rocking-chair by the 
window, was already absorbed in the volume which lay 
open on his knees — the life of the Reverend Adoniram 
Judson — one of the world’s good men. Ruhannah had 
named her cat after him. 

His wife seated herself. She had dishes to do, two 
bedrooms, preparations for noonday dinner — the usual 
and unchangeable routine. She turned and looked out 
of the window across brown fields thinly powdered with 
snow. Along a brawling, wintry-dark stream, fringed 
with grey alders, ran the Brookhollow road. Clumps 
of pines and elms bordered it. There was nothing else 
to see except a distant crow in a ten-acre lot, walking 
solemnly about all by himself. 

. . . Like the vultures that wandered through the 
compound that dreadful day in May . . . she thought 
involuntarily. 

But it was a far cry from Trebizond to Brookhollow. 
And her husband had been obliged to give up after 
the last massacre, when every convert had been dragged 
out and killed in the floating shadow of the Stars and 
Stripes, languidly brilliant overhead. 

For the Sublime Porte and the Kurds had had their 
usual way at last; there was nothing left of the Mis- 
sion ; school and converts were gone ; her wounded hus- 
band, her baby, and herself refugees in a foreign con- 
sulate; and the Turkish Government making apologies 
with its fat tongue in its greasy cheek. 

The Koran says: “Woe to those who pray, and in 
their prayers are careless.” 

The Koran also says : “In the name of God the Com- 
passionate, the Merciful: What thinkest thou of him 
who treateth our religion as a lie ?” 

26 


BROOKHOLLOW 


Mrs. Carew and her crippled husband knew, now, 
what the Sublime Porte thought about it, and what 
was the opinion of the Kurdish cavalry concerning 
missionaries and converts who treated the Moslem re- 
ligion as a lie. 

She looked at her pallid and crippled husband; he 
was still reading; his crutches lay beside him on the 
floor. She turned her eyes to the window. Out there 
the solitary crow was still walking busily about in the 
frozen pasture. And again she remembered the vultures 
that hulked and waddled amid the debris of the burned 
Mission. 

Only that had been in May; and above the sunny 
silence in that place of death had sounded the unbroken 
and awful humming of a million million flies. . . . 

And so, her husband being now hopelessly broken 
and useless, they had come back with their child, Ru- 
hannah, to their home in Brookhollow. 

Here they had lived ever since; here her grey life 
was passing; here her daughter was already emerging 
into womanhood amid the stark, unlovely environments 
of a country crossroads, arid in summer, iron naked 
in winter, with no horizon except the Gayfield hills, no 
outlook save the Brookhollow road. And that led to 
the mill. 

She had done what she could — ^was still doing it. 
But there was nothing to save. Her child’s destiny 
seemed to be fixed. 

Her husband corresponded with the Board of Mis- 
sions, wrote now and then for the Christian Pioneer, 
and lived on the scanty pension allowed to those who, 
like himself, had become incapacitated in line of duty. 
There was no other income. 

n 


THE DARK STAR 


There was, however, the six thousand dollars left to 
Ruhannah by her grandmother, slowly accumulating 
interest in the Mohawk Bank at Orangeville, the county 
seat, and not to be withdrawn, under the terms of the 
will, until the day Ruhannah married or attained, un- 
married, her twenty-fifth year. 

Neither principal nor interest of this legacy was 
available at present. Life in the Carew family at 
Brookhollow was hard sledding, and bid fair to con- 
tinue so indefinitely. 

The life of Ruhannah’s father was passed in read- 
ing or in gazing silently from the window — a tall, sal- 
low, bearded man with the eyes of a dreaming martyr 
and the hands of an invalid — ^who still saw in the 
winter sky, across brown, snow-powdered fields, the 
minarets of Trebizond. 

In reading, in reflection, in dreaming, in spiritual 
acquiescence, life was passing in sombre shadows for 
this middle-aged man who had been hopelessly crushed 
in Christ’s service; and who had never regretted that 
service, never complained, never doubted the wisdom 
and the mercy of his Leader’s inscrutable manoeuvres 
with the soldiers who enlist to follow Him. As far as 
that is concerned, the Reverend Wilbour Carew had 
been born with a believing mind ; doubt of divine good- 
ness in Deity was impossible for him; doubt of human 
goodness almost as difficult. 

Such men have little chance in a brisk, busy, and 
jaunty world; but they prefer it should be that way 
with them. And of these few believers in the goodness 
of God and man are our fools and gentlemen composed. 

On that dreadful day, the Kurd who had mangled 
him so frightfully that he recovered only to limp 
28 


BROOKHOLLOW 


through life on crutches bent over him and shouted 
in his face; 

‘‘Now, you Christian dog, before I cut your throat 
show me how this Christ of yours can be a god !” 

“Is it necessary,” replied the missionary faintly, “to 
light a candle in order to show a man the midday sun ?” 

Which was possibly what saved his life, and the lives 
of his wife and child. Your Moslem adores and under- 
stands such figurative answers. So he left the Reverend 
Mr. Carew lying half dead in the blackened doorway 
and started cheerfully after a frightened convert pray- 
ing under the compound wall. 


CHAPTER III 


IN EMBRYO 

A CHiLB on the floor, flat on her stomach in the red 
light of the stove, drawing pictures; her mother by 
the shaded lamp mending stockings; her father read- 
ing; a faint odour of kerosene from the glass lamp in 
the room, and the rattle of sleet on roof and window; 
this was one of her childhood memories which never 
faded through all the years of Ruhannah’s life. 

Of her waking hours she preferred that hour after 
supper when, lying prone on the worn carpet, with 
pencil and paper, just outside the lamp’s yellow circle 
of light, her youthful imagination kindled and caught 
fire. 

For at that hour the magic of the stove’s glowing 
eyes transformed the sitting-room chairs to furtive 
watchers of herself, made of her mother’s worktable a 
sly and spidery thing on legs, crouching in ambush ; be- 
witched the ancient cottage piano so that its ivory keys 
menaced her like a row of monstrous teeth. 

She adored it all. The tall secretary stared at her 
with owlish significance. Through that neutral veil 
where lamplight and shadow meet upon the wall, the 
engraved portrait of a famous and godly missionary 
peered down at her out of altered and malicious eyes ; 
the claw-footed, haircloth sofa was a stealthy creature 
offering to entrap her with wide, inviting arms; three 
folded umbrellas leaned over the edge of their shadowy 
stand, looking down at her like scrawny and baleful 
30 


IN EMBRYO 


birds, ready to peck at her with crooked handles. And 
as for Adoniram, her lank black cat, the child’s restless 
creative fancy was ever transforming him from goblin 
into warlock, from hydra to hippogrifF, until the ear- 
nestness of pretence sent agreeable shivers down her 
back, and she edged a trifle nearer to her mother. 

But when pretence became a bit too real and too 
grotesque she had always a perfect antidote. It was 
merely necessary to make a quick picture of an angel 
or two, a fairy prince, a swan, and she felt herself in 
their company, and delightfully protected. 

There was a night when the flowing roar of the gale 
outside filled the lamplit silence; when the snow was 
drifting level with the window sills ; when Adoniram, 
unable to prowl abroad, lay curled up tight and sound 
asleep beside her where she sat on the carpet in the 
stove radiance. Wearied of drawing castles and swans, 
she had been listening to her father reading passages 
aloud from the book on his knees to her mother who 
was sewing by the lamp. 

Presently he continued his reading: 

“I asked Alaro the angel: ‘Which place is this, and 
which people are these?’ 

“And he answered : ‘This place is the star-track ; and 
these are they who in the world offered no prayers 
and chanted no liturgies. Through other works they 
have attained felicity.’ ” 

Her mother nodded, continuing to sew. Ruhannah 
considered what her father had read, then: 

“Father.?” 

“Yes He looked down at her absently. 

“What were you reading?” 

“A quotation from the Sacred Anthology.” 

31 


THE DARK STAR 


“Isn’t prayer really necessary?” 

Her mother said: 

“Yes, dear.” 

“Then how did those people who offered no prayers 
go to Heaven.^” 

Her father said : 

“Eternal life is not attained by praise or prayer 
alone, Ruhannah. Those things which alone justify 
prayer are also necessary.” 

“What are they?” 

“What we really think and what we do — both only in 
Christ’s name. Without these nothing else counts very 
much — neither form nor convention nor those indi- 
vidual garments called creed and denomination, which 
belief usually wears throughout the world.” 

Her mother, sewing, glanced gravely down at her 
daughter : 

“Your father is very tolerant of what other people 
believe — as long as they really do believe. Your father 
thinks that Christ would have found friends in Buddha 
and Mahomet.” 

“Do such people go to Heaven?” asked Ruhannah, 
astonished. 

“Listen,” said her father, reading again: 

“ ‘I came to a place and I saw the souls of the liberal, 
adorned above all other souls in splendour. And it 
seemed to me sublime. 

“ T saw the souls of the truthful who walked in lofty 
splendour. And it seemed to me sublime. 

“ ‘I saw the souls of teachers and inquirers ; I saw 
the friendly souls of interceders and peacemakers ; and 
these walked brilliantly in the light. And it seemed 
to me sublime ’ ” 

He turned to his wife : 

32 


IN EMBRYO 


‘‘To see and know is sublime. We know, Mary; and 
Kuhannah is intelligent. But in spite of her faith in 
what she has learned from us, like us she must one day 
travel the common way, seeking for herself the reasons 
and the evidences of immortality.” 

“Perhaps her faith, Wilbour ” 

“Perhaps. But with the intelligent, faith, which is 
emotional, usually follows belief; and belief comes only 
from reasoning. I think that Ruhannah is destined 
to travel the way of all intelligence when she is ready 
to think for herself.” 

“I am ready now,” said the girl. “I have faith in 
our Lord Jesus, and in my father and mother.” 

Her father looked at her: 

“It is good building material. Some day, God will- 
ing, you shall build a very lofty temple with it. But 
the foundation of the temple must first be certain. In- 
telligence ultimately requires reasons for belief. You 
will have to seek them for yourself, Ruhannah. Then, 
on them build your shrine of faith; and nothing shall 
shake it down.” 

“I don’t understand.” 

“And I cannot explain. Only this; as you grow 
older, all around you in the world you will become aware 
of people, countless millions and millions of people, ask- 
ing themselves — ready with tlie slightest encourage- 
ment, or without it, to ask you the question which is 
the most vital of all questions to them. And whatever 
way it is answered always they ask for evidence. You, 
too, will one day ask for evidence. All the world asks 
for it. But few recognise it as evidence when it is 
offered.” 

He closed his book and dropped a heavy hand 
upon it. 

33 


THE DARK STAR 


‘‘Amid the myriad pursuits and interests and trades 
and professions of the human race, amid their multi- 
tudinous aspirations, perplexities, doubts, passions, en- 
deavours, deep within every intelligent man remains one 
dominant desire, one persistent question to be answered 
if possible.” 

“What desire, father 

“The universal desire for another chance — for im- 
mortality. Man’s never-ending demand for evidence of 
an immortality which shall terminate for him the most 
tremendous of all uncertainties, which shall solve for 
him the most vital of all questions : What is to become 
of him after physical death Is he to live again Is 
he to see once more those whom he loved the best.?” 

Ruhannah sat thinking in the red stove light, cross- 
legged, her slim ankles clasped in either hand. 

“But our souls are immortal,” she said at last. 

“Yes.” 

“Our Lord Jesus has said it.” 

“Yes.” 

“Then why should anybody not believe it?” 

“Try to believe it always. Particularly after your 
mother and I are no longer here, try to believe it. . . . 
You are unusually intelligent; and if some day your 
intelligence discovers that it requires evidence for be- 
lief seek for that evidence. It is obtainable. Try to 
recognise it when you encounter it. . . , Only, in any 
event, remember this : never alter your early faith, never 
destroy your childhood’s belief until evidence to prove 
the contrary convinces you.” 

“No. . . . There is no such evidence, is there, 
father.?” 

“I know of none.” 

“Then,” said the girl calmly, “I shall take Christ’s 

34 


IN EMBRYO 


evidence that I shall live again if I do no evil. . . . 
Father.?” 

^‘Yes.” 

‘‘Is there any evidence that Adoniram has no soul.?” 

“I know of none.” 

“Is there any that he has a soul.?” 

“Yes, I think there is.” 

“Are you sure.?” 

“Not entirely.” 

“I wonder,” mused the girl, looking gravely at the 
sleeping cat. 

It was the first serious doubt that Ruhannah had 
ever entertained in her brief career. 

That night she dreamed of the Yellow Devil in Herr 
Wilner’s box, and, awaking, remembered her dream. 
It seemed odd, too, because she had not even thought 
of the Yellow Devil for over a year. 

But the menacing Mongol figure seemed bound to 
intrude into her life once more and demand her atten- 
tion as though resentful of long oblivion and neglect; 
for, a week later, an old missionary from Indo-China 
— a native Chinese — who had lectured at the Baptist 
Church in Gayfield the evening previous, came to pay 
his respects to the Reverend Wilbour Carew. And Rue 
had taken the Yellow Devil from the olive-wood box 
that day and was busily making a pencil drawing of it. 

At sight of the figure the native missionary’s narrow 
almond eyes opened extremely wide, and he leaned on 
the table and regarded the bronze demon very intently. 

Then he took from his pocket and adjusted to his 
button nose a pair of large, horn spectacles; and he 
carefully examined the Chinese characters engraved on 
the base of the ancient bronze, following them slowly 
with a yellow and clawlike forefinger. 

35 


THE DARK STAR 


‘‘Can you read what is written there?” inquired the 
Reverend Mr. Carew. 

“Yes, brother. This is what is written : ‘I am Erlik, 
Ruler of Chaos and of All that Was. The old order 
passes when I arrive. I bring confusion among the 
peoples ; I hurl down emperors ; kingdoms crumble where 
I pass; the world begins to rock and tip, spilling na- 
tions into outer darkness. When there are no more 
kingdoms and no more kings; no more empires and no 
emperors ; and when only the humble till, the blameless 
sow, the pure reap; and when only the teachers teach 
in the shadow of the Tree, and when the Thinker sits 
unstirring under the high stars, then, from the dark 
edges of the world I let go my grasp and drop into 
those immeasurable deeps from which I came — I, Erlik, 
Ruler of All that Was.’ ” 

After a silence the Reverend Mr. Carew asked 
whether the figure was a very old one. 

“It is before the period called ‘Han’ — a dynasty 
during which the Mongols were a mighty people. This 
inscription is Mongol. Erlik was the Yellow Devil of 
the Mongols.” 

“Not a heathen god, then?” 

“No, a heathen devil. Their Prince of Darkness.” 

Ruhannah, pencil in hand, looked curiously at this 
heathen Prince of Darkness, arrived out of the dark 
ages to sit to her for his scowling portrait. 

“I wonder what he thinks of America,” she said, 
partly to herself. 

The native missionary smiled, picked up the Yellow 
Devil, shook the figure, listening. 

“There is something inside,” he said ; “perhaps 
jewels. If you drilled a hole in him you could find out.” 

The Reverend Mr. Carew nodded absently: 

36 


IN EMBRYO 


“Yes ; it might be worth while,” he said. 

“If there is a jewel,” repeated the missionary, “you 
had better take it, then cast away the figure. Erlik 
brings disaster to the land where his image is set up.” 

The Reverend Mr. Carew smiled at his Chinese and 
Christian confrere’s ineradicable vein of superstition. 


CHAPTER IT 


THE TRODDEN WAY 

There came the indeterminate year when Ruhannah 
finished school and there was no money available to send 
her elsewhere for further embellishment, no farther 
horizon than the sky over the Gayfield hills, no other 
perspective than the main street of Gayfield with the 
knitting mill at the end of it. 

So into Gayfield Mill the girl walked, and found a 
place immediately among the unskilled. And her career 
appeared to be predetermined now, and her destiny a 
simple one — to work, to share the toil and the gaieties 
of Gayfield with the majority of the other girls she 
knew; to marry, ultimately, some boy, some clerk in 
one of the Gayfield stores, some farmer lad, perhaps, 
possibly a school teacher or a local lawyer or physician, 
or possibly the head of some department in the mill, 
or maybe a minister — she was sufficiently weU bred and 
educated for any one of these. 

The winter of her seventeenth year found her still 
very much a child at heart, physically backward, a late 
adolescent, a little shy, inclined to silences, romantic, 
sensitive to all beauty, and passionately expressing 
herself only when curled up by the stove with her pen- 
cil and the red light of the coals falling athwart the 
slim hand that guided it. 

She went sometimes to village parties, learned very 
easily to dance, had no preferences among the youths 
38 


THE TRODDEN WAY 


of Gajfield, no romances. For that matter, while she 
was liked and even furtively admired, her slight shy- 
ness, reticence, and a vague, indefinite something about 
her seemed to discourage familiar rustic gallantry. 
Also, she was as thin and awkward as an overgrown lad, 
not thought to be pretty, known to be poor. But for 
all that more than one young man was vaguely haunted 
at intervals by some memory of her grey eyes and the 
peculiar sweetness of her mouth, forgetting for the 
moment several freckles on the delicate bridge of her 
nose and several more on her sun-tanned cheeks. 

She had an agreeable time that winter, enchanted 
to learn dancing, happy at “showers” and parties, at 
sleigh rides and “chicken suppers,” and the various spe- 
cies of village gaiety which ranged from moving pic- 
tures every Thursday and Saturday nights to church 
entertainments, amateur theatricals at the town hall, 
and lectures under the auspices of the aristocratic 
D. O. F. — Daughters of the Old Frontier. 

But she never saw any boy she preferred to any 
other, never was conscious of being preferred, except- 
ing once — and she was not quite certain about that. 

It was old Dick Neeland’s son, Jim — ^vaguely under- 
stood to have been for several years in Paris studying 
art — and who now turned up in Gayfield during Christ- 
mas week. 

Ruhannah remembered seeing him on several occa- 
sions when she was a little child. He was usually 
tramping across country with his sturdy father, Dick 
Neeland of Neeland’s Mills — an odd, picturesque pair 
with their setter dogs and burnished guns, and old 
Dick’s face as red as a wrinkled winter apple, and his 
hair snow-white. 

There was six years’ difference between their ages, 

39 


THE DARK STAR 


Jim Neeland’s and hers, and she had always consid- 
ered him a grown and formidable man in those days. 
But that winter, when somebody at the movies pointed 
him out to her, she was surprised to find him no older 
than the other youths she skated with and danced with. 

Afterward, at a noisy village party, she saw him 
dancing with every girl in town, and the drop of Irish 
blood in this handsome, careless young fellow estab- 
lished him at once as a fascinating favourite. 

Rue became quite tremulous over the prospect of 
dancing with him. Presently her turn came ; she rose 
with a sudden odd loss of self-possession as he was pre- 
sented, stood dumb, shy, unresponsive, suffered him to 
lead her out, became slowly conscious that he danced 
rather badly. But awe of him persisted even when he 
trod on her slender foot. 

He brought her an ice afterward, and seated himself 
beside her. 

“I’m a clumsy dancer,” he said. “How many times 
did I spike you.^” 

She flushed and would have found a pleasant word 
to reassure him, but discovered nothing to say, it be- 
ing perfectly patent to them both that she had retired 
from the floor with a slight limp. 

“I’m a steam roller,” he repeated carelessly. “But 
you dance very well, don’t you.^” 

“I have only learned to dance this winter.” 

“I thought you an expert. Do you live here.?^” 

“Yes. ... I mean I live at Brookhollow.” 

“Funny. I don’t remember you. Besides, I don’t 
know your name — people mumble so when they intro- 
duce a man.” 

“I’m Ruhannah Carew.” 

“Carew,” he repeated, while a crease came between 

40 


THE TRODDEN WAY 


his eyebrows. “Of Brookhollow Oh, I know! 

Your father is the retired missionary — red house facing 
the bridge.” 

“Yes.” 

“Certainly,” he said, taking another look at her; 
“you’re the little girl daddy and I used to see across 
the fields when we were shooting woodcock in the 
willows.” 

“I remember you,” she said. 

“I remember youT^ 

She coloured gratefully. 

“Because,” he added, “dad and I were always afraid 
you’d wander into range and we’d pepper you from 
the bushes. You’ve grown a lot, haven’t you.^” He 
had a nice, direct smile though his speech and man- 
ners were a trifle breezy, confident, and sans fa^on. 
But he was at that age — which succeeds the age of 
bumptiousness — with life and career before him, at- 
tainment, realisation, success, everything the mystery 
of life holds for a young man who has just flung open 
the gates and who takes the magic road to the future 
with a stride instead of his accustomed pace. 

He was already a man with a profession, and meant 
that she should become aware of it. 

Later in the evening somebody told her what a per- 
sonage he had become, and she became even more deeply 
thrilled, impressed, and tremulously > desirous that he 
should seek her out again, not venturing to seek him, 
not dreaming of encouraging him to notice her by 
glance or attitude — not even knowing, as yet, how to 
do such things. She thought he had already forgotten 
her existence. 

But that this thin, freckled young thing with grey 
41 


THE DARK STAR 


eyes ought to learn how much of a man he was remained 
somewhere in the back of Neeland’s head ; and when he 
heard his hostess say that somebody would have to 
see Rue Carew home, he offered to do it. And pres- 
ently went over and asked the girl if he might — not too 
patronisingly. 

In the cutter, under fur, with the moonlight electri- 
cally brilliant and the world buried in white, she ven- 
tured to speak of his art, timidly, as in the presence of 
the very great. 

“Oh, yes,” he said. “I studied in Paris. Wish 1 
were back there. But I’ve got to draw for magazines 
and illustrated papers; got to make a living, you see. 
I teach at the Art League, too.” 

“How happy you must be in your career !” she said, 
devoutly meaning it, knowing no better than to say 
it. 

“It’s a business,” he corrected her, kindly. 

“But — ^yes — but it is art, too.” 

“Oh, art !” he laughed. It was the fashion that year 
to shrug when art was mentioned — reaction from too 
much gabble. 

“We don’t busy ourselves with art ; we busy ourselves 
with business. When they use my stuff I feel I’m get- 
ting on. You see,” he admitted with reluctant hon- 
esty, “I’m young at it yet — I haven’t had very much 
of my stuff in magazines yet.” 

After a silence, cursed by an instinctive truthful- 
ness which always spoiled any little plan to swagger : 

“I’ve had several — ^weU, about a dozen pictures re- 
produced.” 

One picture accepted by any magazine would have 
awed her sufficiently. The mere fact that he was an 
artist had been enough to impress her. 

42 


THE TRODDEN WAY 


“Do you care for that sort of thing — drawing, paint- 
ing, I meftn?” he inquired kindly. 

She drew a quick breath, steadied her voice, and said 
she did. 

“Perhaps you may turn out stuff yourself some 
day.” 

She scarcely knew how to take the word “stuff.” 
Vaguely she surmised it to be professional vernacular. 

She admitted shyly that she cared for nothing so 
much as drawing, that she longed for instruction, but 
that such a dream was hopeless. 

At first he did not comprehend that poverty barred 
the way to her; he urged her to cultivate her talent, 
bestowed advice concerning the Art League, boarding 
houses, studios, ways, means, and ends, until she felt 
obliged to tell him how far beyond her means such 
magic splendours lay. 

He remained silent, sorry for her, thinking also that 
the chances were against her having any particular 
talent, consoling a heart that was unusually sympa- 
thetic and tender with the conclusion that this girl 
would be happier here in Brookhollow than scratching 
around the purlieus of New York to make both ends 
meet. 

“It’s a tough deal,” he remarked abruptly. “ — I 
mean this art stuff. You work like the dickens and kick 
your heels in ante-rooms. If they take your stuff they 
send you back to alter it or redraw it. I don’t know 
how anybody makes a living at it — in the beginning.” 

“Don’t youV^ 

“I.? No.” He reddened; but she could not notice 
it in the moonlight. “No,” he repeated; “I have an 
allowance from my father. I’m new at it yet.” 

“Couldn’t a man — a girl — support herself by draw- 

43 


THE DARK STAR 


ing pictures for magazines?” she inquired tremulously. 

“Oh, well, of course there are some who have arrived 
— and they manage to get on. Some even make wads, 
you know.” 

“W-wads?” she repeated, mystified. 

“I mean a lot of money. There’s that girl on the 
Star, Jean Throssel, who makes all kinds of wealth, 
they say, out of her spidery, filmy girls in ringlets and 
cheesecloth dinner gowns.” 

“Oh!” 

“Yes, Jean Throssel, and that Waythorne girl, Be- 
linda Waythorne, you know — does all that stuff for 
The Lookmg Glass — futurist graft, no mouths on her 
people — she makes hers, I understand.” 

It was rather difficult for Rue to follow him amid 
the vernacular mazes. 

“Then, of course,” he continued, “men like Alexander 
Fairless and Philip Lightwood who imitates him, make 
fortunes out of their drawing. I could name a dozen, 
perhaps. But the rest — hard sledding. Miss Carew I” 

“Is it very hard.^” 

“Well, I don’t know what on earth I’d do if dad 
didn’t back me as his fancy.” 

“A father ought to, if he can afford it.” 

“Oh, I’ll pay my way some day. It’s in me. I feel 
it; I know it. I’ll make plenty of money,” he assured 
her confidently. 

“I’m sure you will.” 

“Thank you,” he smiled. “My friends tell me I’ve 
got it in me. I have one friend in particular — the Prin- 
cess Mistchenka — ^who has all kinds of confidence in my 
future. When I’m blue she bolsters me up. She’s quite 
wonderful. I owe her a lot for asking me to her Sunday 
nights and for giving me her friendship.” 

44 


THE TRODDEN WAY 


‘‘A — a princess?” whispered the girl, who had drawn 
pictures of thousands but was a little startled to realise 
that such fabled creatures really exist. 

“Is she very beautiful?” she added. 

“She’s tremendously pretty.” 

“Her — clothes are very beautiful, I suppose,” ven- 
tured Rue. 

“Well — they’re very — smart. Everything about her 
is smart. Her Sunday night suppers are wonderful. 
You meet people who do things — all sorts — everybody 
who is somebody.” 

He turned to her frankly: 

“I think myself very lucky that the Princess Mist- 
chenka should be my friend, because, honestly. Miss 
Carew, I don’t see what there is in me to interest such a 
woman.” 

Rue thought she could see, but remained silent. 

“If I had my way,” said Neeland, a few moments 
later, “I’d drop illustrating and paint battle scenes. 
But it wouldn’t pay, you see.” 

“Couldn’t you support yourself by painting bat- 
tles.?” 

“Not yet,” he said honestly. “Of course I have 

hopes — intentions ” he laughed, drew his reins ; the 

silvery chimes clashed and jingled and flashed in the 
moonlight ; they had arrived. 

At the door he said : 

“I hope some day you’ll have a chance to take lessons. 
Thank you for dancing with me. ... If you ever do 
come to New York to study, I hope you’ll let me 
know.” 

“Yes,” she said, “I will.” 

He was halfway to his sleigh, looked'back, saw her 
looking back as she entered the lighted doorway. 

45 


THE DARK STAR 


‘‘Good night, Rue,” he said impulsively, warmly sorry 
for her. 

“Good night,” she said. 

The drop of Irish blood in him prompted him to go 
back to where she stood framed in the lighted doorway. 
And the same drop was no doubt responsible for his 
taking her by the waist and tilting back her head in its 
fur hood and kissing her soft, warm lips. 

She looked up at him in a flushed, bewildered sort of 
way, not resisting; but his eyes were so gay and mis- 
chievous, and his quick smile so engaging that a breath- 
less, uncertain smile began to edge her lips; and it re- 
mained stamped there, stiffening even after he had 
jumped into his cutter and had driven away, jingling 
joyously out into the dazzling moonshine. 

In bed, the window open, and the covers pulled to her 
chin, Rue lay wakeful, living over again the pleasures 
of the evening; and Neeland’s face was always before 
her open eyes, and his pleasant voice seemed to be 
sounding in her ears. As for the kiss, it did not trouble 
her. Girls she went with were not infrequently so sa- 
luted by boys. That, being her own first experience, 
was important only in that degree. And she shyly 
thought the experience agreeable. And, as she recalled, 
revived, and considered all that Neeland had said, it 
seemed to her that this young man led an enchanted 
life and that such as he were indeed companions fit 
for princesses. 

“Princess Mistchenka,” she repeated aloud to her- 
self. And somehow it sounded vaguely familiar to the 
girl, as though somewhere, long ago, she had heard 
another voice pronounce the name. 


CHAPTER V 


EX MACHINA 

After she had become accustomed to the smell of 
rancid oil and dyestuffs and the interminable racket of 
machinery she did not find her work at the knitting 
mill disagreeable. It was like any work, she imagined, 
an uninteresting task which had to be done. 

The majority of the girls and young men of the 
village worked there in various capacities; wages were 
fair, salaries better, union regulations prevailed. There 
was nothing to complain of. 

And nothing to expect except possible increase in 
wages, holidays, and a disquieting chance of getting 
caught in the machinery, which familiarity soon dis- 
counted. 

As for the social status of the mill workers, the mill 
was Gayfield; and Gayfield was a village where the 
simpler traditions of the Republic still survived ; where 
there existed no invidious distinction in vocations; a 
typical old-time community harbouring the remains of 
a Grand Army Post and too many churches of too 
many denominations; where the chance metropolitan 
stranger was systematically “done”; where distrust of 
all cities and desire to live in them was equalled only by 
a passion for moving pictures and automobiles; where 
the school trustees used double negatives and traced 
their ancestry to Colonial considerables — who, how- 
ever, had signed their names in “lower case” or with a 
Maltese cross — the world in miniature, with its due 
47 


THE DARK STAB 


proportion of petty graft, petty squabbles, envy, kind- 
ness, jealousy, generosity, laziness, ambition, stupidity, 
intelligence, honesty, hypocrisy, hatred, affection, bad- 
ness and goodness, as standardised by the code estab- 
lished according to folk-ways on earth — in brief, a per- 
fectly human community composed of the usual ingredi- 
ents, worthy and unworthy — that was Gayfield, Mo- 
hawk County, New York. 

Before spring came — before the first robin appeared, 
and while icy roads still lay icy under sunlit pools of 
snow-water — a whole winter indoors, and a sedentary 
one, had changed the smoothly tanned and slightly 
freckled cheeks of Rue Carew to a thinner and paler 
oval. Under her transparent skin a tea-rose pink 
came and went ; under her grey eyes lay bluish shadows. 
Also, floating particles of dust, fleecy and microscopic 
motes of cotton and wool filling the air in the room 
where Ruhannah worked, had begun to irritate her 
throat and bronchial tubes; and the girl developed an 
intermittent cough. 

When the first bluebird arrived in Gayfield the cough 
was no longer intermittent; and her mother sent her 
to the village doctor. So Rue Carew was transferred 
to the box factory adjoining, in which the mill made 
its own paper boxes, where young women sat all day 
at intelligent machines and fed them with squares of 
pasteboard and strips of gilt paper ; and the intelligent 
and grateful machines responded by turning out hun- 
dreds and hundreds of complete boxes, all neatly gilded, 
pasted, and labelled. And after a little while Ruhan- 
nah was able to nourish one of these obliging and re- 
sponsive machines. And by July her cough had left 
her, and two delicate freckles adorned the 'bridge of 
her nose. 


48 


EX MACHINA 


The half-mile walk from and to Brookhollow twice 
a day was keeping her from rapid physical degenera- 
tion. Yet, like all northern American summers, the 
weather became fearfully hot in July and August, and 
the half-mile even in early morning and at six in the 
evening left her listless, nervously dreading the great 
concrete-lined room, the reek of glue and oil, the 
sweaty propinquity of her neighbours, and the monot- 
onous appetite of the sprawling machine which she fed 
all day long with pasteboard squares. 

She went to her work in early morning, bareheaded, 
in a limp pink dress very much open at the throat, 
which happened to be the merciful mode of the moment 
— a slender, sweet-lipped thing, beginning to move with 
grace now — and her chestnut hair burned gold-pale by 
the sun. 

There came that movable holiday in August, when 
the annual shutdown for repairs closed the mill and 
box factory during forty-eight hours — a matter of 
prescribing oil and new bearings for the overfed ma- 
chines so that their digestions should remain unim- 
paired and their dispositions amiable. 

It was a hot August morning, intensely blue and 
still, with that slow, subtle concentration of suspended 
power in the sky, ominous of thunder brooding some- 
where beyond the western edges of the world. 

Ruhannah aided her mother with the housework, 
picked peas and a squash and a saucer full of yellow 
pansies in the weedy little garden, and, at noon, dined 
on the trophies of her husbandry, physically and 
aesthetically. 

After dinner, dishes washed and room tidied, she sat 
down on the narrow, woodbine-infested verandah with 
49 


THE DARK STAR 


pencil and paper, and attempted to draw the stone 
bridge and the little river where it spread in deeps 
and shallows above the broken dam. 

Perspective was unknown to her ; of classic composi- 
tion she was also serenely ignorant, so the absence of 
these in her picture did not annoy her. On the con- 
trary, there was something hideously modern and re- 
cessional in her vigorous endeavour to include in her 
drawing everything her grey eyes chanced to rest on. 
She even arose and gently urged a cow into the already 
overcrowded composition, and, having accomplished its 
portrait with Cezanne-like fidelity, was beginning to 
look about for Adoniram to include him also, when her 
mother called to her, holding out a pair of old gloves. 

“Dear, we are going to save a little money this year. 
Do you think you could catch a few fish for supper?” 

The girl nodded, took the gloves, laid aside her pencil 
and paper, picked up the long bamboo pole from the 
verandah floor, and walked slowly out into the garden. 

A trowel was sticking in the dry earth near the 
flower bed, where poppies, and pansies, and petunias, 
and phlox bordered the walk. 

Under a lilac the ground seemed moister and more 
promising for vermicular investigation ; she drew on her 
gloves, dug a few holes with the trowel, extracted an 
angleworm, frowned slightly, holding it between gloved 
fingers, regarding its contortions with pity and 
aversion. 

To bait a hook was not agreeable to the girl; she 
managed to do it, however, then shouldering her pole 
she walked across the road and down to the left, 
through rank grasses and patches of milkweed, ber- 
gamot, and queen’s lace, scattering a cloud of brown 
and silver-spotted butterflies. 

50 


EX MACHINA 


Alder, elder, and Indian willow barred her way ; rank 
thickets of jewelweed hung vivid blossoming drops 
across her path; woodbine and clematis trailed dainty 
snares to catch her in their fairy nets ; a rabbit scur- 
ried out from behind the ruined paper mill as she came 
to the swift, shallow water below the dam. 

Into this she presently plumped her line, and the next 
instant jerked it out again with a wriggling, silvery 
minnow flashing on the hook. 

Carrying her pole with its tiny, glittering victim 
dangling aloft. Rue hastily retraced her steps to the 
road, crossed the bridge to the further end, seated 
herself on the limestone parapet, and, swinging her pole 
with both hands, cast line and hook and minnow far 
out into the pond. It was a business she did not care 
for; — this extinguishing of the life-spark in anything. 
But, like her mill work, it appeared to be a necessary 
business, and, so regarding it, she went about it. 

The pond above the half-ruined dam lay very still; 
her captive minnow swam about with apparently no dis- 
comfort, trailing on the surface of the pond above him 
the cork which buoyed the hook. 

Rue, her pole clasped in both hands between her 
knees, gazed with preoccupied eyes out across the water. 
On the sandy shore, a pair of speckled tip-ups ran 
busily about, dipping and bobbing, or spread their 
white, striped wings to sheer the still surface of the 
pond, swing shoreward with bowed wings again, and 
resume their formal, quaint, and busy manners. 

From the interstices of the limestone parapet grew a 
white bluebell — the only one Rue had ever seen. As 
long as she could remember it had come up there every 
year and bloomed, snow-white amid a world of its blue 
comrades in the grass below. She looked for it now, 
51 


THE BARK STAR 


saw it in bud — three sturdy stalks sprouting at right 
angles from the wall and curving up parallel to it. 
Somehow or other she had come to associate this white 
freak of nature with herself — she scarcely knew why. 
It comforted her, oddly, to see it again, still surviving, 
still delicately vigorous, though where among those 
stone slabs it found its nourishment she never could 
imagine. 

The intense blue of the sky had altered since noon; 
the west became gradually duller and the air stiller; 
and now, over the Gayfield hills, a tall cloud thrust up 
silvery-edged convolutions toward a zenith still royally 
and magnificently blue. 

She had been sitting there watching her swimming 
cork for over an hour when the first light western 
breeze arrived, spreading a dainty ripple across the 
pond. Her cork danced, drifted ; beneath it she caught 
the momentary glimmer of the minnow; then the cork 
was jerked under; she clasped the pole with all her 
strength, struck upward; and a heavy pickerel, all 
gold and green, sprang furiously from the water and 
fell back with a sharp splash. 

Under the sudden strain of the fish she nearly lost 
her balance, scrambled hastily down from the parapet, 
propping the pole desperately against her body, and 
stood so, unbending, unyielding, her eyes fixed on the 
water where the taut line cut it at forty-five degrees. 

At the same time two men in a red runabout speeding 
westward caught sight of the sharp turn by the bridge 
which the ruins of the paper mill had hidden. The man 
driving the car might have made it even then had he not 
seen Ruhannah in the centre of the bridge. It was 
instantly all off; so were both mud-guards and one 
52 


EX MACHINA 


wheel. So were driver and passenger, floundering on 
their backs among the rank grass and wild flowers. 
Ruhannah, petrified, still fast to her fish, gazed at the 
catastrophe over her right shoulder. 

A broad, short, squarely built man of forty emerged 
from the weeds, went hastily to the car and did some- 
thing to it. Noise ceased; clouds of steam continued 
to ascend from the crumpled hood. 

The other man, even shorter, but slimmer, sauntered 
out of a bed of milkweed whither he had been cata- 
pulted. He dusted with his elbow a grey felt hat as 
he stood looking at the wrecked runabout; his com- 
rade, still clutching a cigar between his teeth, continued 
to examine the car. 

‘‘Hell !” remarked the short, thickset man. 

“It’s going to rain like it, too,” added the other. The 
thunder boomed again beyond Gay field hills. 

“What do you know about this !” growled the thick- 
set man, in utter disgust. “Do we hunt for a garage, 
or what.^” 

“It’s up to you, Eddie. And say ! What was the 
matter with you? Don’t you know a bridge when you 
see one?” 

“That damn girl ” He turned and looked at 

Ruhannah, who was dragging the big flapping pickerel 
over tiie parapet by main strength. 

The men scowled at her in silence, then the one ad- 
dressed as Eddie rolled his cigar grimly into the left 
comer of his jaw. 

“Damn little skirt,” he observed briefly. “It seems 
to worry her a lot what she’s done to us.” 

“I wonder does she know she wrecked us,” suggested 
the other. He was a stunted, wiry little man of thirty- 
five. His head seemed slightly too large; he had a 
53 


THE DARK STAR 


pasty face with the sloe-black eyes, button nose, and 
the widely chiselled mouth of a circus clown. 

The eyes of the short, thickset man were narrow and 
greyish green in a round, smoothly shaven face. They 
narrowed still more as the thunder broke louder from 
the west. 

Ruhannah, dragging her fish over the grass, was 
coming toward them ; and the man called Eddie stepped 
forward to bar her progress. 

“Say, girlie,” he began, the cigar still tightly 
screwed into his cheek, “is there a juice mill anywhere 
near us, d’y’know.?” 

“What.P” said Rue. 

“A garage.” 

“Yes ; there is one at Gayfield.” 

“How far, girlie.?” 

Rue flushed, but answered: 

“It is half a mile to Gayfield.” 

The other man, noticing the colour in Ruhannah’s 
face, took off his pearl-grey hat. His language was 
less grammatical than his friend’s, but his instincts 
were better. 

“Thank you,” he said — his companion staring all the 
while at the girl without the slightest expression. “Is 
there a telephone in any of them houses, miss.?” — 
glancing around behind him at the three edifices which 
composed the crossroads called Brookhollow. 

“No,” said Rue. 

It thundered again; the world around had become 
very dusky and silent and the flash veined a rapidly 
blackening west. 

“It’s going to rain buckets,” said the man called 
Eddie. “If you live around here, can you let us come 
into your house till it’s over, gir — er — miss ?” 

5-4 


EX MACHINA 


“Yes.” 

‘Tm Mr. Brandes — Ed Brandes of New York ” 

speaking through cigar-clutching teeth. “This is Mr. 
Ben Stull, of the same. . . . It’s raining already. Is 
that your house 

“I live there,''" said Rue, nodding across the bridge. 
“You may go in.” 

She walked ahead, dragging the fish; Stull went to 
the car, took two suitcases from the boot; Brandes 
threw both overcoats over his arm, and followed in the 
wake of Ruhannah and her fish. 

“No Saratoga and no races today, Eddie,” remarked 
Stull. But Brandes’ narrow, grey-green eyes were fol- 
lowing Ruhannah. 

“It’s a pity,” continued Stull, “somebody didn’t 
learn you to drive a car before you ask your friends 
joy-riding.” 

“Aw — shut up,” returned Brandes slowly, between 
his teeth. 

They climbed the flight of steps to the verandah, 
through a rapidly thickening gloom which was ripped 
wide open at intervals by lightning. 

So Brandes and his shadow, Bennie Stull, came into 
the home of Ruhannah Carew. 

Her mother, who had observed their approach from 
the window, opened the door. 

“Mother,” said Ruhannah, “here is the fish I caught 
— and two gentlemen.” 

With which dubious but innocent explanation she 
continued on toward the kitchen, carrying her fish. 

Stull offered a brief explanation to account for their 
plight and presence; Brandes, listening and watching 
the mother out of greenish, sleepy eyes, made up his 
mind concerning her. 


55 


THE DARK STAB 


While the spare room was being prepared by mother 
and daughter, he and Stull, seated in the sitting-room, 
their hats upon their knees, exchanged solemn common- 
places with the Reverend Mr. Carew. 

Brandes, always the gambler, always wary and 
reticent by nature, did all the listening before he came 
to conclusions that relaxed the stiffness of his attitude 
and the immobility of his large, round face. 

Then, at ease under circumstances and conditions 
which he began to comprehend and have an amiable 
contempt for, he became urbane and conversational, 
and a little amused to find navigation so simple, even 
when out of his proper element. 

From the book on the invalid’s knees, Brandes took 
his cue; and the conversation developed into a mono- 
logue on the present condition of foreign missions — 
skilfully inspired by the respectful attention and the 
brief and ingenious questions of Brandes. 

“Doubtless,” concluded the Reverend Mr. Carew, 
“you are familiar with the life of the Reverend 
Adoniram Judson, Mr. Brandes.” 

It turned out to be Brandes’ favourite book. 

“You will recollect, then, the amazing conditions in 
India which confronted Dr. Judson and his wife.” 

Brandes recollected perfectly — with a slow glance at 
Stull. 

“All that is changed,” said the invalid. “ — God be 
thanked. And conditions in Armenia are changing for 
the better, I hope.” 

“Let us hope so,” returned Brandes solemnly. 

“To doubt it is to doubt the goodness of the Al- 
mighty,” said the Reverend Mr. Carew. His dreamy 
eyes became fixed on the rain-splashed window, burned 
a little with sombre inward light. 

56 


EX 31 AC HINA 


‘‘In Trebizond,” he began, ‘‘in my time ” 

His wife came into the room, saying that the spare 
bedchamber was ready and that the gentlemen might 
wish to wash before supper, which would be ready in a 
little while. 

On their way upstairs they encountered Ruhannah 
coming down. Stull passed with a polite grunt ; 
Brandes ranged himself for the girl to pass him. 

“Ever so much obliged to you. Miss Carew,” he 
said. “We have put you to a great deal of trouble, 
I am sure.” 

Rue looked up surprised, shy, not quite understand- 
ing how to reconcile his polite words and pleasant voice 
with the voice and manner in which he had addressed 
her on the bridge. 

“It is no trouble,” she said, flushing slightly. “I 
hope you will be comfortable.” 

And she continued to descend the stairs a trifle more 
hastily, not quite sure she cared very much to talk 
to that kind of man. 

In the spare bedroom, whither Stull and Brandes had 
been conducted, the latter was seated on the big and 
rather shaky maple bed, buttoning a fresh shirt and 
collar, while Stull took his turn at the basin. Rain beat 
heavily on the windows. 

“Say, Ben,” remarked Brandes, “you want to be 
careful when we go downstairs that the old guy don’t 
spot us for sporting men. He’s a minister, or some- 
thing.” 

Stull lifted his dripping face of a circus clown from 
the basin. 

“What’s that.?” 


57 


THE DARK STAR 


“I say we don’t want to give the old people a shock. 
You know what they’d think of us.” 

‘‘What do I care what they think 

“Can’t you be polite 

“I can be better than that; I can be honest,” said 
Stull, drying his sour visage with a flimsy towel. 

After Brandes had tied his polka-dotted tie care- 
fully before the blurred mirror: 

“What do you mean by that.f^” he asked stolidly. 

“Ah — I know what I mean, Eddie. So do you. 
You’re a smooth talker, all right. You can listen and 
look wise, too, when there’s anything in it for you. 
Just see the way you got Stein to put up good money 
for you ! And 'all you done was to listen to him and 
keep your mouth shut.” 

Brandes rose with an air almost jocular and smote 
Stull upon the back. 

“Stein thinks he’s the greatest manager on earth. 
Let him tell you so if you want anything out of him,” 
he said, walking to the window. 

The volleys of rain splashing on the panes obscured 
the outlook; Brandes flattened his nose against the 
glass and stood as though lost in thought. 

Behind him Stull dried his features, rummaged in the 
suitcase, produced a bathrobe and slippers, put them 
on, and stretched himself out on the bed. 

“Aren’t you coming down to buzz the preacher.?” 
demanded Brandes, turning from the drenched window. 

“So you can talk phony to the little kid.? No.” 

“Ah, get it out of your head that I mean phony.” 

“Well, what do you mean.?” 

“Nothing.” 

Stull gave him a contemptuous glance and turned 
over on the pillow. 


58 


EX MACHINA 


“Are you coming down ?” 

“No.” 

So Brandes took another survey of himself in the 
glass, used his comb and brushes again, added a studied 
twist to his tie, shot his cuffs, and walked out of the 
room with the solid deliberation which characterised 
his carriage at all times. 


CHAPTER VI 


THE END OF SOLITUDE 

A EAiN-w ASHED world, Smelling sweet as a wet rose, 
a cloudless sky delicately blue, and a swollen stream 
tumbling and foaming under the bridge — of these Mr. 
Eddie Brandes was agreeably conscious as he stepped 
out on the verandah after breakfast, and, unclasping a 
large gold cigar case, inserted a cigar between his teeth. 

He always had the appearance of having just come 
out of a Broadway barber shop with the visible traces 
of shave, shampoo, massage, and manicure patent upon 
his person. 

His short, square figure was clothed in well-cut blue 
serge ; a smart straw hat embellished his head, polished 
russet shoes his remarkably small feet. On his small 
fat fingers several heavy rings were conspicuous. And 
the odour of cologne exhaled from and subtly pervaded 
the ensemble. 

Across the road, hub-deep in wet grass and weeds, 
he could see his wrecked runabout, glistening with rain- 
drops. 

He stood for a while on the verandah, both hands 
shoved deep into his pockets, his cigar screwed into his 
cheek. From time to time he jingled keys and loose 
coins in his pockets. Finally he sauntered down the 
steps and across the wet road to inspect the machine at 
closer view. 

Contemplating it tranquilly, head on one side and 
his left eye closed to avoid the drifting cigar smoke, 
60 


THE END OF SOLITUDE 


he presently became aware of a girl in a pink print 
dress leaning over the grey parapet of the bridge. And, 
picking his way among the puddles, he went toward 
her. 

‘^Good morning. Miss Carew,” he said, taking off his 
straw hat. 

She turned her head over her shoulder; the early 
sun glistened on his shiny, carefully parted hair and 
lingered in glory on a diamond scarf pin. 

“Good morning,” she said, a little uncertainly, for 
the memory of their first meeting on the bridge had not 
entirely been forgotten. 

“You had breakfast early,” he said. 

“Yes.” 

He kept his hat off ; such little courtesies have their 
effect; also it was good for his hair which, he feared, 
had become a trifle thinner recently. 

“It is beautiful weather,” said Mr. Brandes, squint- 
ing at her through his cigar smoke. 

“Yes.” She looked down into the tumbling water. 

“This is a beautiful country, isn’t it. Miss Carew.^” 

“Yes.” 

With his head a little on one side he inspected her. 
There was only the fine curve of her cheek visible, and 
a white neck under the chestnut hair; and one slim, 
tanned hand resting on the stone parapet. 

“Do you like motoring.^” he asked. 

She looked up ; 

“Yes. ... I have only been out a few times.” 

“I’ll have another car up here in a few days. I’d like 
to take you out.” 

She was silent. 

“Ever go to Saratoga.?” he inquired. 

“No.” 


61 


THE DARK STAR 


“I’ll take you to the races — with your mother. 
Would you like to go?” 

She remained silent so long that he became a trifle 
uneasy. 

“With your mother,” he repeated, moving so he could 
see a little more of her face. 

“I don’t think mother would go,” she said. 

“Would she let you go?” 

“I don’t think so.” 

“There’s nothing wrong with racing,” he said, “if 
you don’t bet money on the horses.” 

But Rue knew nothing about sport, and her igno- 
rance as well as the suggested combination of Saratoga, 
automobile, and horse racing left her silent again. 

Brandes sat down on the parapet of the bridge and 
held his straw hat on his fat knees. 

“Then we’ll make it a family party,” he said, “your 
father and mother and you, shall we? And we’ll just 
go oflP for the day.” 

“Thank you.” 

“Would you like it.^” 

“Yes.” 

“Will you go?” 

“I — work in the mill.” 

“Every day ?” 

“Yes.” 

“How about Sunday?” 

“We go to church. ... I don’t know. . . . Per- 
haps we might go in the afternoon.” 

“I’ll ask your father,” he said, watching the deli- 
cately flushed face with odd, almost sluggish persist- 
ency. 

His grey-green eyes seemed hypnotised ; he ap- 
peared unable to turn them elsewhere; and she, grad- 
es 


THE END OF SOLITUDE 


uallj becoming conscious of his scrutiny, kept her own 
eyes averted. 

“What were you looking at in the water he asked. 

“I was looking for our boat. It isn’t there. I’m 
afraid it has gone over the dam.” 

“I’ll help you search for it,” he said, “when I come 
back from the village. I’m going to walk over and find 
somebody who’ll cart that runabout to the railroad 
station. . . . You’re not going that way, are you?” he 
added, rising. 

“No.” 

“Then ” he lifted his hat high and put it on with 

care — “until a little later. Miss Carew. . . . And I 
want to apologise for speaking so familiarly to you 
yesterday. I’m sorry. It’s a way we get into in New 
York. Broadway isn’t good for a man’s manners. 
... Will you forgive me. Miss Carew 

Embarrassment kept her silent ; she nodded her head, 
and finally turned and looked at him. His smile was 
agreeable. 

She smiled faintly, too, and rose. 

“Until later, then,” he said. “This is the Gayfield 
road, isn’t it?” 

“Yes.” 

She turned and walked toward the house; and as 
though he could not help himself he walked beside her, 
his hat in his hand once more. 

“I like this place,” he said. “I wonder if there is a 
hotel in Gayfield.” 

“The Gayfield House.” 

“Is it very bad?” he asked jocosely. 

She seemed surprised. It was considered good, she 
thought. 

With a slight, silent nod of dismissal she crossed the 

03 


THE DARK STAR 


road and went into the house, leaving him standing 
beside his wrecked machine once more, looking after 
her out of sluggish eyes. 

Presently, from the house, emerged Stull, his pasty 
face startling in its pallor under the cloudless sky, and 
walked slowly over to Brandes. 

“Well, Ben,” said the latter pleasantly, “I’m going 
to Gayfield to telegraph for another car.” 

“How soon can they get one up?” inquired Stull, in- 
serting a large cigar into his slitted mouth and light- 
ing it. 

“Oh, in a couple of days, I guess. I don’t know. 
I don’t care much, either.” 

“We can go on to Saratoga by train,” suggested 
Stull complacently. 

“We can stay here, too.” 

“What for?” 

Brandes said in his tight-lipped, even voice : 

“The fishing’s good. I guess I’ll try it.” He con- 
tinued to contemplate the machine, but Stull’s black 
eyes were turned on him intently. 

“How about the races he asked. “Do we go or 
not.?” 

“Certainly.” 

“When?” 

“When they send us a car to go in.” 

“Isn’t the train good enough?” 

“The fishing here is better.” 

Stull’s pasty visage turned sourer: 

“Do you mean we lose a couple of days in this God- 
forsaken dump because you’d rather go to Saratoga 
in a runabout than in a train?” 

“I teU you I’m going to stick around for a while.” 

“For how long.?” 


64 


THE END OF SOLITUDE 


“Oh, I don’t know. When we get our car we can talk 
it over and r-” 

‘‘Ah,” ejaculated Stull in disgust, “what the hell’s 
the matter with you? Is it that little skirt you was 
buzzing out here like you never seen one before?” 

“How did you guess, Ben?” returned Brandes with 
the almost expressionless jocularity that characterised 
him at times. 

*'That little red-headed, spindling, freckled, milk-fed 
mill-hand ” 

“Funny, ain’t it? But there’s no telling what will 
catch the tired business man, is there, Ben?” 

“Well, what does catch him?” demanded Stull an- 
grily. “What’s the answer?” 

“I guess^ she’s the answer, Ben.” 

“Ah, leave the kid alone ” 

“I’m going to have the car sent up here. I’m going 
to take her out. Go on to Saratoga if you want to. 
I’ll meet you there ” 

“When?” 

“When I’m ready,” replied Brandes evenly. But he 
smiled. 

Stull looked at him, and his white face, soured by 
dyspepsia, became sullen with wrath. At such times, 
too, his grammar suffered from indigestion. 

“Say, Eddie,” he began, “can’t no one learn you 
nothin’ at all? How many times would you have been 
better off if you’d listened to me? Every time you 
throw me you hand yourself one. Now that you got a 
little money again and a little backing, don’t do any- 
thing like that ” 

“Like what?” 

“Like chasin’ dames ! Don’t act foolish like you done 
in Chicago last summer! You wouldn’t listen to me 
65 


THE DARK STAR 


then, would you? And that Denver business, too! 
Say, look at all the foolish things you done against all 
I could say to save you — like backing that cowboy plug 
against Battling Jensen! — Like taking that big hunk o’ 
beef, Walstein, to San Antonio, where Kid O’Rourke 
put him out in the first I And everybody’s laughing at 

you yet! Ah ” he exclaimed angrily, “somebody 

tell me why I don’t quit you, you big dill pickle! I 
wish someone would tell me why I stand for you, because 
I don’t know. . . . And look what you’re doing now; 
you got some money of your own and plenty of syndi- 
cate money to put on the races and a big comish ! You 
got a good theayter in town with Morris Stein to back 
you and everything — and look what you’re doing!” he 
ended bitterly. 

Brandes tightened his dental grip on his cigar and 
squinted at him good-humouredly. 

“Say, Ben,” he said, “would you believe it if I told 
you I’m stuck on her ?” 

“Ah, you’d fall for anything. I never seen a skirt 
you wouldn’t chase.” 

“I don’t mean that kind.” 

“What kind, then?” 

“This is on the level, Ben.” 

“What! Ah, go on! You on the level.?*” 

“All the same, I am.” 

“You can’t be on the level! You don’t know how.” 

“Why?” 

“You got a wife, and you know damn well you have.” 

“Yes, and she’s getting her divorce.” 

Stull regarded him with habitual and sullen distrust. 

“She hasn’t got it yet.” 

“She’ll get it. Don’t worry.” 

“I thought you was for fighting it.” 

66 


THE END OF SOLITUDE 


‘‘I was going to fight it ; but ” His slow, narrow, 

greenish eyes stole toward the house across the road. 

‘‘Just like that,” he said, after a slight pause; “that’s 
the way the little girl hit me. I’m on the level, Ben. 
First skirt I ever saw that I wanted to find waiting 
dinner for me when I come home. Get me.^^” 

“I don’t know whether I do or not.” 

“Get this, then; she isn’t all over paint; she’s got 
freckles, thank God, and she smells sweet as a daisy 

field. Ah, what the hell ” he burst out between his 

parted teeth “ — when every woman in New York smells 
like a chorus girl! Don’t I get it all day.?^ The whole 
city stinks like a star’s dressing room. And I married 
one I And I’m through. I want to get my breath and 
I’m getting it.” 

Stull’s white features betrayed merely the morbid 
suffering of indigestion; he said nothing and sucked 
his cigar. 

“I’m through,” repeated Brandes. “I want a home 
and a wife — the kind that even a fly cop won’t pinch 
on sight — the kind of little thing that’s over there in 
that old shack. Whatever I am, I don’t want a wife 
like me — nor kids, either.” 

Stull remained sullenly unresponsive. 

“Call her a hick if you like. All right, I want that 
kind.” 

No comment from Stull, who was looking at the 
wrecked car. 

“Understand, Ben.?” 

“I tell you I don’t know whether I do or not I” 

“Well, what don’t you understand.?” 

“Nothin’. . . . Well, then, your falling for a kid 
like that, first crack out o’ the box. I’m honest; I 
don’t understand it.” 


67 


THE DARK STAR 


“She hit me that way — so help me God !’’ 

“And you’re on the level?” 

“Absolutely, Ben.” 

“What about the old guy and the mother? Take ’em 
to live with you?” 

“If she wants ’em.” 

Stull stared at him in uneasy astonishment: 

“All right, Eddie. Only don’t act foolish till Minna 
passes you up. And get out of here or you will. If 
you’re on the level, as you say you are, you’ve got to 
mark time for a good long while yet ” 

“Why.?” 

“You don’t have to ask me that, do you?” 

“Yes, I do. Why? I want to marry her, I tell you. 
I mean to. I’m taking no chances that some hick 
will do it while I’m away. I’m going to stay right 
here.” 

“And when the new car comes?” 

“I’ll keep her humming between here and Saratoga.** 

“And then what?” 

Brandes’ greenish eyes rested on the car and he 
smoked in silence for a while. Then: 

“Listen, Ben. I’m a busy man. I got to be back in 
town and I got to have a wedding trip too. You know 
me, Ben. You know what I mean. That’s me. When 
I do a thing I do it. Maybe I make plenty of mistakes. 
Hell! I’d rather make ’em than sit pat and do 
nothing !” 

“You’re crazy.” 

“Don’t bet on it, Ben. I know what I want. I’m 
going to make money. Things are going big with 
me ” 

“You tinhorn! You always say that!” 

“Watch me. I bet you I make a killing at Saratoga! 

68 


THE END OF SOLITUDE 


I bet you I make good with Morris Stein! I bet you 
the first show I put on goes big ! I bet ” 

‘‘Ah, can it !” 

“Wait! I bet you I marry that little girl in two 
weeks and she stands for it when I tell her later we’d 
better get married again !” 

“Say! Talk sense!” 

“I am.” 

“What’ll they do to you if your wife makes a holler?” 

“Who ever heard of her or me in the East.^” 

“You want to take a chance like that?” 

“I’ll fix it. I haven’t got time to wait for Minna 
to shake me loose. Besides, she’s in Seattle. I’ll fix it 
so she doesn’t hear until she gets her freedom. I’ll get 
a license right here. I guess I’ll use your name ” 

“What!” yelled Stull. 

“Shut your face !” retorted Brandes. “What do you 
think you’re going to do, squeal?” 

“You think I’m going to stand for that?” 

“Well, then, I won’t use your name. I’ll use my own. 
Why not? I mean honest. It’s dead level. I’ll re- 
marry her. I want her, I tell you. I want a wedding 
trip, too, before I go back ” 

“With the first rehearsal called for September fif- 
teenth! What’s the matter with you? Do you think 
Stein is going to stand for ” 

“Fow’ZZ be on hand,” said Brandes pleasantly. “I’m 
going to Paris for four weeks — two weeks there, two 
on the ocean ” 

“You ” 

“Save your voice, Ben. That’s settled.” 

Stull turned upon him a dead white visage distorted 
with fury: 

“I hope she throws you out!” he said breathlessly. 

69 


THE DARK STAR 


“You talk about being on the level! Every level’s 
crooked with you. You don’t know what square means ; 
a square has got more than four corners for you ! Go 
on I Stick around. I don’t give a damn what you do. 
Go on and do it. But I quit right here.” 

Both knew that the threat was empty. As a shadow 
clings to a man’s heels, as a lost soul haunts its slayer, 
as damnation stalks the damned, so had Stull followed 
Brandes ; and would follow to the end. Why.? Neither 
knew. It seemed to be their destiny, surviving every- 
thing — their bitter quarrels, the injustice and tyranny 
of Brandes, his contempt and ridicule sometimes — en- 
during through adversity, even penury, through good 
and bad days, through abundance and through want, 
through shame and disgrace, through trickery, treach- 
ery, and triumph — nothing had ever broken the occult 
bond which linked these two. And neither understood 
why, but both seemed to be vaguely conscious that 
neither was entirely complete without the other. 

“Ben,” said Brandes affably, “I’m going to walk 
over to Gayfield. Want to come.?” 

They went off, together. 


CHAPTER VII 


OBSESSION 

By the end of the week Brandes had done much to 
efface any unpleasant impression he had made on Ru- 
hannah Carew. 

The girl had never before had to do with any mature 
man. She was therefore at a disadvantage in every 
way, and her total lack of experience emphasised the 
odds. 

Nobody had ever before pointedly preferred her, 
paid her undivided attention; no man had ever sought 
her, conversed with her, deferred to her, interested him- 
self in her. It was entirely new to her, this attention 
which Brandes paid her. Nor could she make any com- 
parisons between this man and other men, because she 
knew no other men. He was an entirely novel experi- 
ence to her ; he had made himself interesting, had 
proved amusing, considerate, kind, generous, and ap- 
parently interested in what interested her. And if his 
unfeigned preference for her society disturbed and per- 
plexed her, his assiduous civilities toward her father 
and mother were gradually winning from her far more 
than anything he had done for her. 

His white-faced, odd little friend had gone; he him- 
self had taken quarters at the Gayfield House, where a 
car like the wrecked one was stabled for his use. 

He had already taken her father and mother and 
herself everywhere within motoring distance; he had 
accompanied them to church; he escorted her to the 
71 


THE DARK STAR 


movies ; he walked with her in the August evenings after 
supper, rowed her about on the pond, fished from the 
bridge, told her strange stories in the moonlight on the 
^^randah, her father and mother interested and atten- 
tive. 

For the career of Mr. Eddie Brandes was capable of 
furnishing material for interesting stories if carefully 
edited, and related with discretion and circumspection. 
He had been many things to many men — and to several 
women — he had been a tinhorn gambler in the South- 
west, a miner in Alaska, a saloon keeper in Wyoming, a 
fight promoter in Arizona. He had travelled profitably 
on popular ocean liners until requested to desist ; 
Auteuil, Neuilly, Vincennes, and Longchamps knew him 
as tout, bookie, and, when fitfully prosperous, as a 
plunger. Epsom knew him once as a welcher; and 
knew him no more. 

,He had taken a comic opera company through the 
wheat-belt — one way ; he had led a burlesque troupe into 
Arizona and had traded it there for a hotel. 

“When Eddie wants to talk,” Stull used to say, “that 
smoke, Othello, hasn’t got nothing on him.” 

However, Brandes seldom chose to talk. This was 
one of his rare garrulous occasions ; and, with careful 
self-censorship, he was making an endless series of won- 
der-tales out of the episodes and faits divers common 
to the experience of such as he. 

So, of moving accidents by flood and field this man 
had a store, and he contrived to make them artistically 
innocuous and perfectly fit for family consumption. 

Further, two of his friends motored over from Sara- 
toga to see him, were brought to supper at the Carews’ ; 
and they gave him a clean bill of moral health. They 
were, respectively, “Doc” Curfoot — suave haunter of 
72 


OBSESSION 


Peacock Alley and gentleman “capper” — whom Brandes 
introduced as the celebrated specialist, Doctor Elbert 
Curfoot — and Captain Harman Quint, partner in 
“Quint’s” celebrated temple of chance — introduced as 
the distinguished navigating officer which he appeared 
to be. The steering for their common craft, however, 
was the duty of the eminent Doc. 

They spent the evening on the verandah with the 
family; and it was quite wonderful what a fine fellow 
each turned out to be — information confidentially 
imparted to the Reverend Mr. Carew by each of the 
three distinguished gentlemen in turn. 

Doc Curfoot, whose business included the ability to 
talk convincingly on any topic, took the Reverend Mr. 
Carew’s measure and chose literature; and his suave 
critique presently became an interesting monologue 
listened to in silence by those around him. 

Brandes had said, “Put me in right, Doc,” and Doc 
was accomplishing it, partly to oblige Brandes, partly 
for practice. His agreeable voice so nicely pitched, so 
delightfully persuasive, recapitulating all the common- 
places and cant phrases concerning the literature of 
the day, penetrated gratefully the intellectual isolation 
of these humble gentlepeople, and won very easily their 
innocent esteem. With the Reverend Mr. Carew Doc 
discussed such topics as the influence on fiction of the 
ethical ideal. With Mrs. Carew Captain Quint ex- 
changed reminiscences of travel on distant seas. 
Brandes attempted to maintain low- voiced conversation 
with Rue, who responded in diffident monosyllables to 
his advances. 

Brandes walked down to their car with them after 
they had taken their leave. 

73 


THE DARK STAR 


‘‘What’s the idea, Eddie?” inquired Doc Curfoot, 
pausing before the smart little speeder. 

“It’s straight.” 

“Oh,” said Doc, softly, betraying no surprise — about 
the only thing he never betrayed. “Anything in it for 
you, Eddie?” 

“Yes. A good girl. The kind you read about. Isn’t 
that enough?” 

“Minna chucked you?” inquired Captain Quint. 

“She’ll get her decree in two or three months. Then 
I’ll have a home. And everything that you and I are 
keeps out of that home. Cap. See?” 

“Certainly,” said Quint. “Quite right, Eddie.” 

Doc Curfoot climbed in and took the wheel; Quint 
* followed him. 

“Say,” he said in his pleasant, guarded voice, “watch 
out that Minna don’t double-cross you, Eddie.” 

“How?” 

“ — Or shoot you up. She’s some schutzen-fest, you 
know, when she turns loose ” 

“Ah, I tell you she wants the divorce. Abe Grittle- 
feld’s crazy about her. He’ll get Abe Gordon to star 
her on Broadway ; and that’s enough for her. Besides, 
she’ll marry Maxy Venem when she can afford to keep 
him.” 

^^You never understood Minna Minti.” 

“Well, who ever understood any German?” demanded 
Brandes. “She’s one of those sour-blooded, silent 
Dutch women that make me ache.” 

Doc pushed the self-starter; there came a click, a 
low humming. Brandes’ face cleared and he held out 
his square-shaped hand: 

“You fellows,” he said, “have put me right with the 
old folks here. I’U do the same for you some day. 
74 


OBSESSION 


Don’t talk about this little girl and me, that’s 
aU.” 

“All the same,” repeated Doc, “don’t take any 
chances with Minna. She’s on to you, and she’s got a 
rotten Dutch disposition.” 

“That’s right. Doc. And say, Harman,” — to Quint 
— “tell Ben he’s doing fine. Tell him to send me what’s 
mine, because I’ll want it very soon now. I’m going 
to take a month off and then I’m going to show Stein 
how a theatre can be run.” 

“Eddie,” said Quint, “it’s a good thing to think big, 
but it’s a damn poor thing to talk big. Cut out the 
talk and you’ll be a big man some day.” 

The graceful car moved forward into the moonlight; 
his two friends waved an airy adieu; and Brandes went 
slowly back to the dark verandah where sat a young 
girl, pitifully immature in mind and body — and two 
old people little less innocent for all their experience in 
the ranks of Christ, for all the wounds that scarred 
them both in the over-sea service which had broken them 
forever. 

“A very handsome and distinguished gentleman, your 
friend Dr. Curfoot,” said the Reverend Mr. Carew. “I 
imagine his practice in New York is not only fashion- 
able but extensive.” 

“Both,” said Brandes. 

“I assume so. He seems to be intimately acquainted 
with people whose names for generations have figured 
prominently in the social columns of the New York 
press.” 

“Oh, yes, Curfoot and Quint know them all.” 

Which was true enough. They had to. One must 
know people from whom one accepts promissory notes 
to liquidate those little affairs peculiar to the temple 
75 


THE DARK STAR 


of chance. And New York’s best furnished the neo- 
phytes for these rites. 

‘‘I thought Captain Quint very interesting,” ven- 
tured Ruhannah. “He seems to have sailed over the 
entire globe.” 

“Naval men are always delightful,” said her mother. 
And, laying her hand on her husband’s arm in the dark : 
“Do you remember, Wilbour, how kind the officers from 
the cruiser Oneida were when the rescue party took us 
aboard 

“God sent the Oneida to us,” said her husband 
dreamily. “I thought it was the end of the world for 
us — for you and me and baby Rue — that dreadful 
flight from the mission to the sea.” 

His bony fingers tightened over his wife’s toilworn 
hand. In the long grass along the creek fireflies 
sparkled, and their elfin lanterns, waning, glowing, 
drifted high in the calm August night. 

The Reverend Mr. Carew gathered his crutches; the 
night was a trifie damp for him ; besides, he desired to 
read. Brandes, as always, rose to aid him. His wife 
followed. 

“Don’t stay out long. Rue,” she said in the door- 
way. 

“No, mother.” 

Brandes came back. Departing from his custom, he 
did not light a cigar, but sat in silence, his narrow eyes 
trying to see Ruhannah in the darkness. But she was 
only a delicate shadow shape to him, scarcely detached 
from the darkness that enveloped her. 

He meant to speak to her then. And suddenly found 
he could not, realised, all at once, that he lacked the 
courage. 

This was the more amazing and disturbing to him 

76 


OBSESSION 


because he could not remember the time or occasion 
when the knack of fluent speech had ever failed 
him. 

He had never foreseen such a situation ; it had never 
occurred to him that he would find the slightest diffi- 
culty in saying easily and gracefully what he had deter- 
mined to say to this young girl. 

Now he sat there silent, disturbed, nervous, and 
tongue-tied. At first he did not quite comprehend what 
was making him afraid. After a long while he under- 
stood that it was some sort of fear of her — fear of her 
refusal, fear of losing her, fear that she might have — 
in some occult way — divined what he really was, that 
she might have heard things concerning him, his wife, 
his career. The idea turned him cold. 

And all at once he realised how terribly in earnest 
he had become; how deeply involved; how vital this 
young girl had become to him. 

Never before had he really wanted anything as com- 
pared to this desire of his for her. He was understand- 
ing, too, in a confused way, that such a girl and such 
a home for him as she could make was going not only 
to give him the happiness he expected, but that it also 
meant betterment for himself — straighter living, per- 
haps straighten thinking — the birth of something re- 
sembling self-respect, perhaps even aspiration — or at 
least the aspiration toward that respect from others 
which honest living dare demand. 

He wanted her ; he wanted her now ; he wanted to 
marry her whether or not he had the legal right; he 
wanted to go away for a month with her, and then re- 
turn and work for her, for them both — build up a for- 
tune and a good reputation with Stein’s backing and 
Stein’s theatre — stand well with honest men, stand well 
77 


THE DARK STAR 


with himself, stand always, with her, for everything a 
man should be. 

If she loved him she would forgive him and quietly 
remarry him as soon as Minna kicked him loose. He 
was confident he could make her happy, make her love 
him if once he could find courage to speak — if once he 
could win her. And suddenly the only possible way to 
go about it occurred to him. 

His voice was a trifle husky and unsteady from the 
nervous tension when he at last broke the silence: 

“Miss Rue,” he said, “I have a word to say to your 
father and mother. Would you wait here until I come 
back 

think I had better go in, too ” 

“Please don’t.” 

“Why.?*” She stopped short, instinctively, but not 
surmising. 

“You will wait, then.?” he asked. 

“I was going in. . . . But I’ll sit here a little while.” 

He rose and went in, rather blindly. 

Ruhannah, dreaming there deep in her splint arm- 
chair, slim feet crossed, watched the fireflies sailing over 
the alders. Sometimes she thought of Brandes, pleas- 
antly, sometimes of other matters. Once the memory 
of her drive home through the wintry moonlight with 
young Neeland occurred to her, and the reminiscence 
was vaguely agreeable. 

Listless, a trifle sleepy, dreamily watching the fireflies, 
the ceaseless noise of the creek in her ears, inconsequen- 
tial thoughts flitted through her brain — the vague, aim- 
less, guiltless thoughts of a young and unstained 
mind. 

She was nearly asleep when Brandes came back, and 


OBSESSION 


she looked up at him where he stood beside her porch 
chair in the darkness. 

“Miss Rue,” he said, “I have told your father and 
mother that I am in love with you and want to make 
you my wife.” 

The girl lay there speechless, astounded. 


CHAPTER VIII 


A CHANGE IMPENDS 

The racing season at Saratoga drew toward its close, 
and Brandes had appeared there only twice in person, 
both times with a very young girl. 

‘Tf you got to bring her here to the races, can’t you 
get her some clothes ?” whispered Stull in his ear. ‘‘That 
get-up of hers is something fierce.” 

Late hours, hot weather, indiscreet nourishment, and 
the feverish anxiety incident to betting other people’s 
money had told on Stull. His eyes were like two smears 
of charcoal on his pasty face ; sourly he went about the 
business which Brandes should have attended to, nurs- 
ing resentment — although he was doing better than 
Brandes had hoped to do. 

Their joint commission from his winnings began to 
assume considerable proportions ; at track and club and 
hotel people were beginning to turn and stare when the 
little man with the face of a sick circus clown ap- 
peared, always alone, greeting with pallid indifference 
his acquaintances, ignoring overtures, noticing neither 
sport, nor fashion, nor political importance, nor yet 
the fair and frail whose curiosity and envy he was grad- 
ually arousing. 

Obsequiousness from club, hotel, and racing officials 
made no impression on him ; he went about his business 
alone, sullen, preoccupied, deathly pale, asking no in- 
formation, requesting no favours, conferring with no- 
body, doing no whispering and enduring none. 

80 


A CHANGE IMPENDS 


After a little study of that white, sardonic, impossi- 
ble face, people who would have been glad to make use 
of him became discouraged. And those who first had 
recognised him in Saratoga found, at the end of the 
racing month, nothing to add to their general identifi- 
cation of him as “Ben Stull, partner of Eddie Brandes 
— Western sports.” 

Stull, whispering in Brandes’ ear again, where he sat 
beside him in the grand stand, added to his earlier com- 
ment on Ruhannah’s appearance: 

“Why don’t you fix her up, Eddie It looks like you 
been robbing a country school.” 

Brandes’ slow, greenish eyes marked sleepily the dis- 
tant dust, where Mr. Sanford’s Nick Stoner was lead- 
ing a brilliant field, steadily overhauling the favourite, 
Deborah Glenn. 

“When the time comes for me to fix her up,” he said 
between thin lips which scarcely moved, “she’ll look 
like Washington Square in May — not like Fifth Ave- 
nue and Broadway.” 

Nick Stoner continued to lead. Stull’s eyes resem- 
bled two holes burnt in a sheet ; Brandes yawned. 
They were plunging the limit on the Sanford fa- 
vourite. 

As for Ruhannah, she sat with slender gloved hands 
tightly clasped, lips parted, intent, fascinated with the 
sunlit beauty of the scene. 

Brandes looked at her, and his heavy, expressionless 
features altered subtly: 

“Some running!” he said. 

A breathless nod was her response. All around them 
repressed excitement was breaking out; men stood up 
and shouted; women rose, and the club house seemed 
81 


THE BARK STAR 


suddenly to blossom like a magic garden of wind-tossed 
flowers. 

Through the increasing cheering Stull looked on 
without a sign of emotion, although affluence or ruin, in 
the Sanford colours, sat astride the golden roan. 

Suddenly Ruhannah stood up, one hand pressed to 
the ill-fitting blue serge over her wildly beating heart. 
Brandes rose beside her. Not a muscle in his features 
moved. 

“Gawd!” whispered Stull in his ear, as they were 
leaving. 

“Some killing, Ben!” nodded Brandes in his low, de- 
liberate voice. His heavy, round face was deeply 
flushed; Fortune, the noisy wanton, had flung both 
arms around his neck. But his slow eyes were contin- 
ually turned on the slim young girl whom he was teach- 
ing to walk beside him without taking his arm. 

“Ain’t she on to us?” Stull had enquired. And 
Brandes’ reply was correct; Ruhannah never dreamed 
that it made a penny’s difference to Brandes whether 
Nick Stoner won or whether it was Deborah Glenn 
which the wild-voiced throng saluted. 

They did not remain in Saratoga for dinner. They 
took Stull back to his hotel on the rumble of the run- 
about, Brandes remarking that he thought he should 
need a chauffeur before long and suggesting that Stull 
look about Saratoga for a likely one. 

Halted in the crush before the United States Hotel, 
Stull decided to descend there. Several men in the 
passing crowds bowed to Brandes; one, Norton Smaw- 
ley, known to the fraternity as “Parson” Smawley, 
came out to the curb to shake hands. Brandes intro- 
8S 


A CHANGE UIPENDS 


duced him to Rue as “Parson” Smawley — whether with 
some sinister future purpose already beginning to take 
shape in his round, heavy head, or whether a perverted 
sense of humour prompted him to give Rue the idea that 
she had been in godly company, it is difficult to deter- 
mine. 

He added that Miss Carew was the daughter of a 
clergyman and a missionary. And the Parson took his 
cue. At any rate Rue, leaning from her seat, listened 
to the persuasive and finely modulated voice of Parson 
Smawley with pleasure, and found his sleek, graceful 
presence and courtly manners most agreeable. There 
were no such persons in Gayfield. 

She hoped, shyly, that if he were in Gayfield he would 
call on her father. Once in a very long while clergy- 
men called on her father, and their rare visits remained 
a pleasure to the lonely invalid for months. 

The Parson promised to call, very gravely. It would 
not have embarrassed him to do so; it was his business 
in life to have a sufficient knowledge of every man’s busi- 
ness to enable him to converse convincingly with any- 
body. 

He took polished leave of her; took leave of Brandes 
with the faintest flutter of one eyelid, as though he un- 
derstood Brandes’ game. Which he did not; nor did 
Brandes himself, entirely. 

They had thirty miles to go in the runabout. So 
they would not remain to dinner. Besides, Brandes did 
not care to make himself conspicuous in public just 
then. Too many people knew more or less about him 
— the sort of people who might possibly be in communi- 
cation with his wife. There was no use slapping chance 
in the face. Two quiet visits to the races with Ruhan- 
83 


THE DARK STAR 


nah was enough for the present. Even those two visits 
were scarcely discreet. It was time to go. 

Stull and Brandes stood consulting together beside 
the runabout; Rue sat in the machine watching the 
press of carriages and automobiles on Broadway, and 
the thronged sidewalks along which brilliant, animated 
crowds were pouring. 

‘‘I’m not coming again, Ben,” said Brandes, dropping 
his voice. “No use to hunt the limelight just now. 
You can’t tell what some of these people might do. I’ll 
take no chances that some fresh guy might try to start 
something.” 

“Stir up Minna Stull’s lips merely formed the 
question, and his eyes watched Ruhannah. 

“They couldn’t. What would she care? All the 
same, I play safe, Ben. Well, be good. Better send me 
mine on pay day. I’ll need it.” 

Stull’s face grew sourer: 

“Can’t you wait till she gets her decree?” 

“And lose a month off? No.” 

“It’s all coming your way, Eddie. Stay wise and 
play safe. Don’t start anything now ” 

“It’s safe. If I don’t take September off I wait a 
year for my — honeymoon. And I won’t. See?” 

They both looked cautiously at Ruhannah, who sat 
motionless, absorbed in the turmoil of vehicles and 
people. 

Brandes’ face slowly reddened ; he dropped one hand 
on Stull’s shoulder and said, between thin lips that 
scarcely moved: 

“She’s all I’m interested in. You don’t think much 
of her, Ben. She isn’t painted. She isn’t dolled up the 
Way you like ’em. But there isn’t anything else that 
matters very much to me. All I want in the world is 
84 


A CHANGE IMPENDS 


sitting in that runabout, looking out of her kid eyes at 
a thousand or two people who ain’t worth the pair of 
run-down shoes she’s wearing.” 

But Stull’s expression remained sardonic and un- 
convinced. 

So Brandes got into his car and took the wheel; and 
Stull watched them threading a tortuous path through 
the traffic tangle of Broadway. 

They sped past the great hotels, along crowded 
sidewalks, along the park, and out into an endless 
stretch of highway where hundreds of other cars were 
travelling in 'the same direction. 

“Did you have a good time.?^” he inquired, shifting 
his cigar and keeping his narrow eyes on the road. 

“Yes; it was beautiful — exciting.” 

“Some horse, Nick Stoner! Some race, eh?” 

“I was so excited — with everybody standing up and 
shouting. And such beautiful horses — and such pretty 
women in their wonderful dresses ! I — I never knew 
there were such things.” 

He swung the car, sent it rushing past a lumbering 
limousine, slowed a little, gripped his cigar between his 
teeth, and watched the road, both hands on the wheeL 

Yes, things were coming his way — coming faster and 
faster all the while. He had waited many years for 
this — for material fortune — for that chance which 
every gambler waits to seize when the psychological sec- 
ond ticks .out. But he never had expected that the 
chance was to include a very young girl in a country- 
made dress and hat. 

As they sped westward the freshening wind from dis- 
tant pine woods whipped their cheeks ; north, blue hills 
and bluer mountains beyond took fairy shape against 
the sky; and over all spread the tremendous heavens 
85 


THE DARK STAR 


where fleets of white clouds sailed the uncharted wastes, 
and other fleets glimmered beyond the edges of the 
world, hull down, on vast horizons. 

“I want to make you happy,” said Brandes in his 
low, even voice. It was, perhaps, the most honest state- 
ment he had ever uttered. 

Ruhannah remained silent, her eyes riveted on the 
far horizon. 

It was a week later, one hot evening, that he tele- 
graphed to Stull in Saratoga : 

“Find me a chauflPeur who will be willing to go 
abroad. I’ll give you twenty-four hours to get him 
here.” 

The next morning he called up Stull on the telephone 
from the drug store in Gayfield : 

“Get my wire, Ben.?^” 

“Yes. But I ” 

“Wait. Here’s a postscript. I also want Parson 
Smawley. I want him to get a car and come over to 
the Gayfield House. Tell him I count on him. And 
he’s to wear black and a white tie.” 

“Yes. But about that chauffeur you want ” 

“Don’t argue. Have him here. Have the Parson, 
also. Tell him to bring a white tie. Understand?” 

“Oh, yes, I understand you, Eddie! You don’t want 
anything of me, do you! Go out and get that combi- 
nation? Just like that ! What’ll I do? Step into the 
street and whistle?” 

“It’s up to you. Get busy.” 

**As usual,” retorted Stull in an acrid voice. “All 
the same, I’m telling you there ain’t a chauffeur you’d 
have in Saratoga. Who handed you that dope?” 

“Try. I need the chauffeur part of the combine, any- 

86 


A CHANGE IMPENDS 


way. If he won’t go abroad, I’ll leave him in town. Get 
a wiggle on, Ben. How’s things?” 

“All right. We had War-axe and Lady Johnson. 
Some killing, eh.? That stable is winning all along. 
We’ve got Adriutha and Queen Esther today. The 
Ocean Belle skate is scratched. Doc and Cap and me 
is thick with the Legislature outfit. We’ll trim ’em to- 
night. How are you feeling, Eddie?” 

“Never better. I’ll call you up in the morning. 
Ding-dong !” 

“Wait! Are you really going abroad?” shouted 
Stull. 

But Brandes had already hung up. 

He walked leisurely back to Brookhollow through the 
sunshine. He had never been as happy in all his life. 


CHAPTER IX 


NONRESISTANCE 

‘‘Long distance calling you, Mr. Stull. One moment^ 
please. . . . Here’s your party,” concluded the oper-= 
ator. 

Stull, huddled sleepily on his bed, picked up the trans- 
mitter from the table beside him with a frightful yawn. 

“Who is it.?” he inquired sourly. 

“It’s m^Ben!” 

“Say, Eddie, have a heart, will you! I need the 
sleep ” 

Brandes’ voice was almost jovial: 

“Wake up, you poor tout I It’s nearly noon ” 

“Well, wasn’t I singing hymns with Doc and Cap 
till breakfast time.? And believe me^ we trimmed the 
Senator’s bunch! They’ve got their transportation 
back to Albany, and that’s about all ” 

“Careful what you say. I’m talking from the Gay- 
field House. The Parson got here all right. He’s just 
left. He’ll tell you about things. Listen, Ben, the 
chauffeur you sent me from Saratoga got here last 
evening, too. I went out with him and he drives all 
right. Did you look him up .?” 

“Now, how could I look him up when you gave me 
only a day to get him for you.?” 

“Did he have references?” 

“Sure, a wad of them. But I couldn’t verify them.” 

“Who is he.?” 

“I forget his name. You ought to know it by now.’^ 

88 


NONRESISTANCE 


“How did you get him?” 

“Left word at the desk. An hour later he came to 
my room with a couple of bums. I told him about the 
job. I told him you wanted a chauffeur willing to go 
abroad. He said he was all that and then some. So 
I sent him on. Anything you don’t fancy about 
him ?” 

“Nothing, I guess. He seems all right. Only I like 
to know about a man ” 

“How can 1‘find out if you don’t give me time?” 

“All right, Ben. I guess he’ll do. By the way, I’m 
starting for town in ten minutes.” 

“What’s the idea?” 

“Ask the Parson. Have you any other news except 
that you killed that Albany bunch of grafters?” 

“No. . . . Yes! But it ain’t good news. I was go- 
ing to call you soon as I waked up 

“What’s the trouble?” 

“There ain’t any trouble — yet. But a certain party 
has showed up here — a very smooth young man whose 
business is hunting trouble. Get me?” 

After a silence Stull repeated: 

“Get me, Eddie?” 

“No.” 

“Listen. A certain slippery party ” 

“Who, damn it? Talk out. I’m in a hurry.” 

“Very well, then. Maxy Venem is here !” 

The name of his wife’s disbarred attorney sent a chill 
over Brandes. 

“What’s he doing in Saratoga?” he demanded. 

“I’m trying to find out. He was to the races yester- 
day. He seen Doc. Of course Doc hadn’t laid eyes on 
you for a year. Oh, no, indeed ! Heard you was some- 
where South, down and out. I don’t guess Maxy was 
89 


THE DARK STAR 


fooled none. What we done here in Saratoga is grow- 
ing too big to hush up ” 

‘What we^ve done? V^^ad’ye mean, wef I told you 
to work by yourself quietly, Ben, and keep me out of 
it.” 

“That’s what I done. Didn’t I circulate the news 
that you and me had quit partnership? And even then 
you wouldn’t take my advice. Oh, no. You must show 

up here at the track with a young lady ” 

“How long has Maxy Venem been in Saratoga?” 
snapped Brandes. 

“He told Doc he just come, but Cap found out he’d 
been here a week. All I hope is he didn’t see you with 

the Brookhollow party ” 

“Do you think he didf^^ 

“Listen, Eddie. Max is a smooth guy 

“Find out what he knows ! Do you hear ?” 

“Who? Me? Me try to make Maxy Venem talk? 
That snake? If he isn’t on to you now, that would be 
enough to put him wise. Act like you had sense, Eddie. 

Call that other matter off and slide for town ” 

“I can’t, Ben.” 

“You got to!” 

“I canH, I tell you.” 

“You’re nutty in the head! Don’t you suppose that 
Max is wise to what I’ve been doing here? And don’t 
you suppose he knows damn well that you’re back of 
whatever I do ? If you ain’t crazy you’ll call that party 
off for a while.” 

Brandes’ even voice over the telephone sounded a 
trifle unnatural, almost hoarse: 

“I can’t call it off. Ifs done.^’ 

“What’s done.?” 

“What I told you I was going to do.” 

90 


NONRESISTANCE 


^^Thatr 

“The Parson married us.” 

“Oh !” 

“Wait! Parson Smawlej married us, in church, as- 
sisted by the local dominie. I didn’t count on the 
dominie. It was her father’s idea. He butted in.” 

“Then is it — is it 

“That’s what I’m not sure about. You see, the 
Parson did it, but the dominie stuck around. Whether 
he got a half nelson on me I don’t know till I ask. Any- 
way, I expected to clinch things — later — so it doesn’t 
really matter, unless Max Venem means bad. Does 
he, do you think 

“He always does, Eddie.” 

“Yes, I know. Well, then. I’ll wait for a cable 
from you. And if I’ve got to take three months off 
in Paris, why I’ve got to — that’s all.” 

“Good God! What about Stein? What about the 
theaytre?” 

^^Youll handle it for the first three months. . . . 
Say, I’ve got to go, now. I think she’s waiting ” 

“Who.?” 

“My— wife.” 

“Oh !” 

“Yes. The chauffeur took her back to the house 
in the car to put something in her suitcase that she 
forgot. I’m waiting for her here at the Gayfield 
House. We’re on our way to town. Going to motor 
in. Our trunks have gone by rail.” 

After a silence, StuU’s voice sounded again, tense,, 
constrained : 

“You better go aboard tonight.” 

“That’s right, too.” 

“What’s your ship.?” 


91 


THE DARK STAR 


‘^Lusitania** 

“What’ll I tell Stein?” 

“Tell him I’ll be back in a month. You look out for 
mj end. I’ll be back in time.” 

“Will you cable me?” 

“Sure. And if you get any later information about 
Max today, call me at the Knickerbocker. We’ll dine 
there and then go aboard.” 

“I get you. . . . Say, Eddie, I’m that worried ! If 
this break of yours don’t kill our luck ” 

“Don’t you believe it! I’m going to fight for what 
I got till someone hands me the count. She’s the first 
thing I ever wanted. I’ve got her and I guess I can 
keep her. . . . And listen: there’s nothing like her in 
all God’s world!” 

“When did you do — it?” demanded Stull, coldly. 

“This morning at eleven. I just stepped over here 
to the garage. I’m talking to you from the bar. She’s 
back by this time and waiting, I guess. So take care 
of yourself till I see you.” 

“Same to you, Eddie. And be leery of Max. He’s 
had. When they disbar a man like that he’s twice as 
dangerous as he was. His ex-partner, Abe Grittle- 
feld, is a certain party’s attorney of record. Ask your- 
self what you’d be up against if that pair of wolves 
get started after you! You know what Max would 
do to you if he could. And Minna, too!” 

“Don’t worry.” 

“I am worrying! And you ought to. You know 
what you done to Max. Don’t think he ever forgets. 
He’ll do you if he can, same as Minna will.” 

Brandes’ stolid face lost a little of its sanguine col- 
our, where he stood in the telephone box behind the 
bar of the Gayfield House. 

n 


NONRESISTANCE 


Yes, he knew well enough what he had once done 
to the disbarred lawyer out in Athabasca when he was 
handling the Unknown and Venem, the disbarred, was 
busy looking out for the Athabasca Blacksmith, furnish- 
ing the corrupt brains for the firm of Venem and Grit- 
tlefeld, and paying steady court to the prettiest girl 
in Athabasca, Use Dumont. 

And Brandes’ Unknown had almost killed Max Ven- 
em’s blacksmith ; Brandes had taken all Venem’s money, 
and then his girl; more than that, he had “made” this 
girl, in the theatrical sense of the word; and he had 
gambled on her beauty and her voice and had won out 
with both. 

Then, while still banking her salary to reimburse 
himself for his trouble with her, he had tired of her 
sufficiently to prove unfaithful to his marriage vows 
at every opportunity. And opportunities were many. 
Venem had never forgiven him; Use Dumont could not 
understand treachery ; and Venem’s detectives furnished 
her with food for thought that presently infuriated her. 

And now she was employing Max Venem, once senior 
partner in the firm of Venem and Grittlefeld, to guide 
her with his legal advice. She wanted Brandes’ ruin, 
if that could be accomplished; she wanted her freedom 
anyway. 

Until he had met Rue Carew he had taken measures 
to fight the statutory charges, hoping to involve Venem 
and escape alimony. Then he met Ruhannah, and be- 
came willing to pay for his freedom. And he was still 
swamped in the vile bog of charges and countercharges, 
not yet free from it, not yet on solid ground, when the 
eternal gambler in him suggested to him that he take 
the chance of marrying this young girl before he was 
legally free to do so. 


93 


THE DARK STAR 


Why on earth did he want to take such a chance? 
He had only a few months to wait. He had never before 
really cared for any woman. He loved her — as he 
understood love — as much as he was capable of loving. 
If in all the world there was anything sacred to him, 
it was his sentiment regarding Rue Carew. Yet, he 
was tempted to take the chance. Even she could not 
escape his ruling passion; at the last analysis, even 
she represented to him a gambler’s chance. But in 
Brandes there was another streak. He wanted to take 
the chance that he could marry her before he had a 
right to, and get away with it. But his nerve failed. 
And, at the last moment, he had hedged, engaging Par- 
son Smawley to play the lead instead of an ordained 
clergyman. 

All these things he now thought of as he stood unde- 
cided, worried, in the telephone booth behind the bar 
at the Gayfield House. Twice Stull had spoken, and 
had been bidden to wait and to hold the wire. 

Finally, shaking off the premonition of coming trou- 
ble, Brandes called again: 

“Ben.?” 

“Yes, I’m listening.” 

“I’ll stay in Paris if there’s trouble.” 

“And throw Stein down.?” 

“What else is there to do.?” 

“Well, you can wait, can’t you? You don’t seem to 
be able to do that any more, but you better learn.” 

“All right. What next?” 

“Make a quick getawa}^ NowP^ 

“Yes, I’m going at once. Keep me posted, Ben. Be 
good !” 

He hung up and went out to the wide, tree- 
shaded street where Ruhannah sat in the runabout 
94 


NONRESISTANCE 


awaiting him, and the new chauffeur stood by the car. 

He took off his straw hat, pulled a cap and goggles 
from his pocket. His man placed the straw hat in the 
boot. 

‘‘Get what you wanted, Rue.^” 

“Yes, thank you.” 

“Been waiting long.^” 

“I — don’t think so.” 

“All right,” he said cheerily, climbing in beside her. 
“I’m sorry I kept you waiting. Had a business matter 
to settle. Hungry.?^” 

Rue, very still and colourless, said no, with a me- 
chanical smile. The chauffeur climbed to the rumble. 

“I’ll jam her through,” nodded Brandes as the car 
moved swiftly westward. “We’ll lunch in Albany on 
time.” 

Half a mile, and they passed Neeland’s Mills, where 
old Dick Neeland stood in his boat out on the pond and 
cast a glittering lure for pickerel. 

She caught a glimpse of him — ^his sturdy frame, 
white hair, and ruddy visage — and a swift, almost wist- 
ful memory of young Jim Neeland passed through her 
mind. 

But it was a very confused mind — only the bewildered 
mind of a very young girl — and the memory of the boy 
flashed into its confusion and out again as rapidly as 
the landscape sped away behind the flying car. 

Dully she was awar« that she was leaving familiar 
and beloved things, but could not seem to realise it 
— childhood, girlhood, father and mother, Brookhollow, 
the mill, Gayfield, her friends, all were vanishing in 
the flying dust behind her, dwindling, dissolving into an 
infinitely growing distance. 

They took the gradual slope of a mile-long hill as 

95 


THE DARK STAR 


swallows take the air; houses, barns, woods, orchards, 
grain fields, flew by on either side ; other cars approach- 
ing passed them like cannon balls ; the sunlit, undulating 
world flowed glittering away behind; only the stainless 
blue ahead confronted them immovably — a vast, mag- 
nificent goal, vague with the mystery of promise. 

“On this trip,” said Brandes, “we may only have 
time to see the Loove and the palaces and all like that. 
Next year we’ll fix it so we can stay in Paris and you 
can study art.” 

Ruhannah’s lips formed the words, “Thank you.” 

“Can’t you learn to call me Eddie .?*” he urged. 

The girl was silent. 

“You’re everything in the world to me. Rue.” 

The same little mechanical smile fixed itself on her 
lips, and she looked straight ahead of her. 

“Haven’t you begun to love me just a little bit, Rue.^” 

“I like you. You are very kind to us.” 

“Don’t your affection seem to grow a little stronger 
now?” he urged. 

“You are so kind to us,” she repeated gratefully; “I 
bke you for it.” 

The utterly unawakened youth of her had always 
alternately fascinated and troubled him. Gambler that 
he was, he had once understood that patience is a 
gambler’s only stock in trade. But now for the first 
time in his career he found himself without it. 

“You said,” he insisted, “that you’d love me when 
we were married.” 

She turned her child’s eyes on him in faint surprise: 

“A wife loves her husband always, doesn’t she.?” 

“Do youV’^ 

“I suppose I shall. ... I haven’t been married very 
long — long enough to feel as though I am really mar- 
96 


NONRESISTANCE 


ried. When I begin to realise it I shall understand, of 
course, that I love you.” 

It was the calm and immature reply of a little girl 
playing house. He knew it. He looked at her pure, 
perplexed profile of a child and knew that what he had 
said was futile — understood that it was meaningless 
to her, that it was only confusing a mind already dazed 
— a mind of which too much had been expected, too 
much demanded. 

He leaned over and kissed the cold, almost colourless 
cheek; her little mechanical smile came back. Then 
they remembered the chauffeur behind them and Bran- 
des reddened. He was unaccustomed to a man on the 
rumble. 

“Could I talk to mother on the telephone when we 
get to New York?” she asked presently, still painfully 
flushed. 

“Yes, darling, of course.” 

“I just want to hear her voice,” murmured Rue. 

“Certainly. We can send her a wireless, too, when 
we’re at sea.” 

That interested her. She enquired curiously in re- 
gard to wireless telegraphy and other matters concern- 
ing ocean steamers. 

In Albany her first wave of loneliness came over her 
in the stuffy dining-room of the big, pretentious hotel, 
when she found herself seated at a small table alone 
with this man whom she seemed, somehow or other, to 
have married. 

As she did not appear inclined to eat, Brandes began 
to search the card for something to tempt her. And, 
glancing up presently, saw tears glimmering in her eyes. 

For a moment he remained dumb as though stunned 

97 


THE DARK STAR 


by some sudden and terrible accusation — for a mo- 
ment only. Then, in an unsteady voice: 

“Rue, darling. You must not feel lonely and fright- 
ened. I’ll do anything in the world for you. Don’t 
you know it.^” 

She nodded. 

“I tell you,” he said in that even, concentrated voice 
of his which scarcely moved his narrow lips, “I’m just 
crazy about you. You’re my own little wife. You’re 
all I care about. If I can’t make you happy somebody 
ought to shoot me.” 

She tried to smile; her full lips trembled; a single 
tear, brimming, fell on the cloth. 

“I — don’t mean to be silly. . . . But — Brookhollow 
seems — ended — forever. ...” 

“It’s only forty miles,” he said with heavy joviabty. 
“Shall we turn around and go back?” 

She glanced up at him with an odd expression, as 
though she hoped he meant it ; then her little mechanical 
smile returned, and she dried her eyes naively. 

“I don’t know why I cannot seem to get used to be- 
ing married,” she said. “I never thought that getting 
married would make me so — so — lonely.” 

“Let’s talk about art,” he suggested. “You’re crazy 
about art and you’re going to Paris. Isn’t that fine.” 

“Oh, yes ” 

“Sure, it’s fine. That’s where art grows. Artville 
is Paris’ other name. It’s all there, Rue — the Loove, 
the palaces, the Latin Quarter, the statues, the 
churches, and all like that.” 

“What is the Louvre like?” she asked, tremulously, 
determined to be brave. 

As he had seen the Louvre only from the outside, his 
imaginary description was cautious, general, and brief. 
98 


NONRESISTANCE 


After a silence, Rue asked whether he thought that 
their suitcases were quite safe. 

‘‘Certainly,” he smiled. “I checked them.” 

“And you’re sure they are safe?” 

“Of course, darling. What worries you?” 

And, as she hesitated, he remembered that she had 
forgotten to put something into her suitcase and that 
the chauffeur had driven her back to the house to get 
it while he himself went into the Gayfield House to 
telephone Stull. 

“What was it you went back for. Rue ?” he asked. 

“One thing I went back for was my money.” 

“Money ? What money ?” 

“Money my grandmother left me. I was to have it 
when I married — six thousand dollars.” 

“You mean you have it in your suitcase?” he asked, 
astonished. 

“Yes, half of it.” 

“A cheque?” 

“No, in hundreds.” 

“Bills.?” 

“Yes. I gave father three thousand. I kept three 
thousand.” 

“In bills,” he repeated, laughing. “Is your suitcase 
locked ?” 

“Yes. I insisted on having my money in cash. So 
Mr. Wexall, of the Mohawk Bank, sent a messenger 
with it last evening.” 

“But,” he asked, still immensely amused, “why do 
you want to travel about with three thousand dollars 
in bills in your suitcase?” 

She flushed a little, tried to smile : 

“I don’t know why. I never before had any money. 
It is — pleasant to know I have it.” 

99 


THE DARK STAB 


“But I’ll give you all you want, Rue.” 

“Thank you. ... I have my own, you see.” 

“Of course. Put it away in some bank. When you 
want pin money, ask me.” 

She shook her head with a troubled smile. 

“I couldn’t ask anybody for money,” she ex- 
plained. 

“Then you don’t have to. We’ll fix your allowance.” 

“Thank you, but I have my money, and I don’t 
need it.” 

This seemed to amuse him tremendously; and even 
Rue laughed a little. 

“You are going to take your money to Paris he 
asked. 

“Yes.” 

“To buy things?” 

“Oh, no. Just to have it with me.” 

His rather agreeable laughter sounded again. 

“So that was what you forgot to put in your suit- 
case,” he said. “No wonder you went back for it.” 

“There was something else very important, too.” 

“What, darling?” 

“My drawings,” she explained innocently. 

“Your drawings! Do you mean you’ve got them, 
too?” 

“Yes. I want to take them to Paris and compare 
them with the pictures I shall see there. It ought to 
teach me a great deal. Don’t you think so?” 

“Are you crazy to study?” he asked, touched to the 
quick by her utter ignorance. 

“It’s all I dream about. If I could work that way 
and support myself and my father and mother ” 

“But, Rue! Wake up! We’re married, little girl. 
You don’t have to work to support anybody!” 

100 


NONRESISTANCE 


“I — forgot,” said the girl vaguely, her confused 
grey eyes resting on his laughing, greenish ones. 

Still laughing, he summoned the waiter, paid the 
reckoning; Ruhannah rose as he did; they went slowly 
out together. 

On the sidewalk beside their car stood the new chauf- 
feur, smoking a cigarette which he threw away without 
haste when he caught sight of them. However, he 
touched the peak of his cap civilly, with his forefinger. 

Brandes, lighting a cigar, let his slow eyes rest on 
the new man for a moment. Then he helped Rue into 
the tonneau, got in after her, and thoughtfully took the 
wheel, conscious that there was something or other 
about his new chauffeur that he did not find entirely to 
his liking. 


CHAPTER X 


DRIVING HEAD-ON 

It was mid-afternoon when they began to pass 
through that series of suburbs which the city has flung 
like a single tentacle northward for a hundred miles 
along the eastern banks of the Hudson. 

A smooth road of bluestone with a surface like velvet, 
rarely broken by badly paved or badly worn sections, 
ran straight south. Past mansions standing amid spa- 
cious lawns all ablaze with late summer and early au- 
tumn flowers they sped; past parks, long stretches of 
walls, high fenco^s of wrought iron through which brief 
glimpses of woodlands and splendid gardens caught 
Rue’s eye. And, every now and then, slowing down 
to traverse some village square and emerging from 
the further limits, the great river flashed into view, 
sometimes glassy still under high headlands or along 
towering parapets of mountains, sometimes rufiled 
and silvery where it widened into bay or inland sea, 
with a glimmer of distant villages on the further 
shore. 

Over the western bank a blinding sun hung in a sky 
without a cloud — a sky of undiluted azure ; but farther 
south, and as the sun declined, traces of vapours from 
the huge but still distant city stained the heavens. 
Gradually the increasing haze changed from palest lav- 
ender and lemon-gold to violet and rose with smoulder- 
ing undertones of fire. Beneath it the river caught the 
stains in deeper tones, flowing in sombre washes of flame 
102 


DRIVING HEAD-ON 


or spreading wide under pastel tints of turquoise set 
with purple. 

Now, as the sun hung lower, the smoke of every river 
boat, every locomotive speeding along the shores below, 
lay almost motionless above the water, tinged with the 
delicate enchantment of declining day. 

And into this magic veil Rue was passing already 
through the calm of a late August afternoon, through 
tree-embowered villages and towns, the names of which 
she did not know — swiftly, inexorably passing into the 
iris-grey obscurity where already the silvery points of 
arc-lights stretched away into intricate geometrical de- 
signs — faint traceries as yet sparkling with subdued 
lustre under the sunset heavens. 

Vast shadowy shapes towered up ahead — outlying 
public buildings, private institutions, industrial plants, 
bridges of iron and steel, the ponderous bowed spans of 
which crossed wildernesses of railroad tracks or craft- 
crowded waters. 

Two enormous arched viaducts of granite stretched 
away through sparkling semi-obscurity — High Bridge 
and Washington Bridge. Then it became an increas- 
ing confusion of phantom masses against a fading sky 
— bridges, towers, skyscrapers, viaducts, boulevards, 
a wilderness of streets outlined by the growing bril- 
liancy of electric lamps. 

BrandlfS, deftly steering through the swarming maze 
of twilight avenues, turned east across the island, then 
swung south along the curved parapets and spreading 
gardens of Riverside Drive. 

Perhaps Brandes was tired; he had become uncom- 
municative, inclined to silence. He did point out to 
her the squat, truncated mass where the great General 
slept; called her attention to the river below, whera 
103 


THE DARK STAR 


three grey battleships lay. A bugle call from the decks 
came faintly to her ears. 

If Rue was tired she did not know it as the car swept 
her steadily deeper amid the city’s wonders. 

On her left, beyond the trees, the great dwellings 
and apartments of the Drive were already glimmering 
with light in every window; to the right, under the 
foliage of this endless necklace of parks and circles, a 
summer-clad throng strolled and idled along the river 
wall; and past them moved an unbroken column of 
automobiles, taxicabs, and omnibuses. 

At Seventy-second Street they turned to the east 
across the park, then into Fifth Avenue south once 
more. She saw the name of the celebrated avenue on 
the street corner, turned to glance excitedly at Brandes ; 
but his preoccupied face was expressionless, almost for- 
bidding, so she turned again in quest of other delight- 
ful discoveries. But there was nothing to identify for 
her the houses, churches, hotels, shops, on this endless 
and bewildering avenue of grey stone; as they swung 
west into Forty-second Street, she caught sight of the 
great marble mass of the Library, but had no idea what 
it was. 

Into this dusky canon, aflame with light, they rolled, 
where street lamps, the lamps of vehicles, and electric 
signs dazzled her unaccustomed eyes so that she saw 
nothing except a fiery vista filled with the rush and 
roar of traffic. 

When they stopped, the chauffeur dropped from the 
rumble and came around to where a tall head porter 
in blue and silver uniform was opening the tonneau 
door. 

Brandes said to his chauffeur; 

“Here are the checks. Our trunks are at the Grand 
104 


DRIVING HEAD-ON 


Central. Get them aboard, then come back here for us 
at ten o’clock.” 

The chauffeur lifted his hand to his cap, and looked 
stealthily between his fingers at Brandes. 

‘‘Ten o’clock,” he repeated ; “very good, sir.” 

Rue instinctively sought Brandes’ arm as they en- 
tered the crowded lobby, then remembered, blushed, and 
withdrew her hand. 

Brandes had started toward the desk with the in- 
tention of registering and securing a room for the few 
hours before going aboard the steamer; but something 
halted him — some instinct of caution. No, he would 
not register. He sent their luggage to the parcels 
room, found a maid who took Rue away, then went on 
through into the bar, where he took a stiff whisky and 
soda, a thing he seldom did. 

In the toilet he washed and had himself brushed. 
Then, emerging, he took another drink en passanty 
conscious of an odd, dull sense of apprehension for 
which he could not account. 

At the desk they told him there was no telephone mes- 
sage for him. He sauntered over to the news stand, 
stared at the display of periodicals, but had not suffi- 
cient interest to buy even am evening paper. 

So he idled about the marble-columned lobby, now 
crowded with a typical early-autumn throng in quest 
of dinner and the various nocturnal amusements which 
the city offers at all times to the frequenters of its 
thousand temples. 

Rue came out of the ladies’ dressing room, and he 
went to her and guided her into the dining-room on the 
left, where an orchestra was playing. In her blue, pro- 
vincial travelling gown the slender girl looked oddly out 
of place amid lace and jewels and the delicate tints 
105 


THE DARK STAR 


of frail evening gowns, but her cheeks were bright with 
colour and her grey eyes brilliant, and the lights touched 
her thick chestnut hair with a ruddy glory, so that more 
than one man turned to watch her pass, and the idly 
contemptuous indifference of more than one woman 
ended at her neck and chin. 

What Rue ate she never afterward remembered. It 
was all merely a succession of delicious sensations for 
the palate, for the eye, for the ear when the excellent 
orchestra was playing some gay overture from one of 
the newer musical comedies or comic operas. 

Brandes at times seemed to shake off a growing de- 
pression and rouse himself to talk to her, even jest with 
her. He smoked cigarettes occasionally during din- 
ner, a thing he seldom did, and, when coffee was served, 
he lighted one of his large cigars. 

Rue, excited under an almost childishly timid man- 
ner, leaned on the table with both elbows and linked 
fingers, listening, watching everything with an al- 
most breathless intelligence which strove to compre- 
hend. 

People left; others arrived; the music continued. 
Several times people passing caught Brandes’ eye, and 
bowed and smiled. He either acknowledged such salutes 
with a slight and almost surly nod, or ignored them 
altogether. 

One of his short, heavy arms lay carelessly along the 
back of his chair, where he was sitting sideways looking 
at the people in the lobby — watching with that same 
odd sensation of foreboding of which he had been 
conscious from the first moment he had entered the 
city line. 

What reason for apprehension he had he could not 
understand. Only an hour lay between him and the 
106 


DRIVING HEAD-ON 


seclusion of the big liner ; a few hours and he and this 
girl beside him would be at sea. 

Once he excused himself, went out to the desk, and 
made an inquiry. But there was no telephone or tele- 
graph message for him ; and he came back chewing his 
cigar. 

Finally his uneasiness drew him to his feet again : 

‘‘Rue,” he said, “I’m going out to telephone to Mr. 
Stull. It may take some little time. You don’t mind 
waiting, do you.?” 

“No,” she said. 

“Don’t you want another ice or something?” 

She confessed that she did. 

So he ordered it and went away. 

As she sat leisurely tasting her ice and watching with 
unflagging interest the people around her, she noticed 
that the dining-room was already three-quarters empty. 
People were leaving for cafe, theatre, or dance; few 
remained. 

Of these few, two young men in evening dress now 
arose and walked toward the lobby, one ahead of the 
other. One went out; the other, in the act of going, 
glanced casually at her as he passed, hesitated, halted, 
then, half smiling, half inquiringly, came toward her. 

“Jim Neeland!” she exclaimed impulsively. “ — I 

mean Mr. Neeland ” a riot of colour flooding her 

face. But her eager hand remained outstretched. He 
took it, pressed it lightly, ceremoniously, and, still 
standing, continued to smile down at her. 

Amid all this strange, infernal glitter; amid a city 
of six million strangers, suddenly to encounter a fa- 
miliar face — to see somebody — anybody — from Gayfield 
— seemed a miracle too delightful to be true. 

“You are Rue Carew,” he said. “I was not certain 

107 


THE DARK STAB 


for a moment. You know we met only once before.” 

Rue, conscious of the startled intimacy of her first 
greeting, blushed with the memory. But Neeland was 
a tactful young man; he said easily, with his very en- 
gaging smile: 

“It was nice of you to remember me so frankly and 
warmly. You have no idea how pleasant it was to 
hear a Gayfield voice greet me as ‘Jim.’ ” 

“I — didn’t intend to ” 

“Please intend it in future. Rue. You don’t mind, 
do you?” 

“No.” 

“And will you ever forget that magnificent winter 
night when we drove to Brookhollow after the party?” 

“I have — remembered it.” 

“So have I. . . . Are you waiting for somebody ? Of 
course you are,” he added, laughing. “But may I sit 
down for a moment?” 

“Yes, I wish you would.” 

So he seated himself, lighted a cigarette, glanced up 
at her and smiled. 

“When did you come to New York?” he asked. 

“Tonight.” 

“Well, isn’t that a bit of luck to run into you like 
this ! Have you come here to study art.^” 

“No. . . . Yes, I think, later, I am to study art 
here.” 

“At the League?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“Better go to the League,” he said. “Begin there 
anyway. Do you know where it is?” 

“No,” she said. 

He called a waiter, borrowed pencil and pad, and 
wrote down the address of the Art Students’ League. 

108 


DRIVING HEAD-ON 


He had begun to fold the paper when a second thought 
seemed to strike him, and he added his own address. 

“In case I can do anything for you in any way,” 
he explained. 

Rue thanked him, opened her reticule, and placed 
the folded paper there beside her purse. 

“I do hope I shall see you soon again,” he said, look- 
ing gaily, almost mischievously into her grey eyes. 
“This certainly resembles fate. Don’t you think so, 
Rue — this reunion of ours.^” 

“Fate?” she repeated. 

“Yes. I should even call it romantic. Don’t you 
think our meeting this way resembles something very 
much like romance 

She felt herself flushing, tried to smile: 

“It couldn’t resemble anything,” she explained with 
quaint honesty, “because I am sailing for Europe to- 
morrow morning; I am going on board in less than an 
hour. And also — also, I ” 

“Also?” — he prompted her, amused, yet oddly 
touched by her childishly literal reply. 

“I am — married.” 

“Good Lord !” he said. 

“This morning,” she added, tasting her ice. 

“And you’re sailing for Europe on your honey- 
moon!” he exclaimed. “Well, upon my word! And 
what is your ship?” 

“The Lusitania '^ 

“Really! I have a friend who is sailing on her — a 
most charming woman. I sent flowers to her only an 
hour ago.” 

“Did you?” asked Rue, interested. 

“Yes. She is a widow — the Princess Mistchenka — a 
delightful and pretty woman. I am going to send a 
109 


THE DARK STAR 


note to the steamer tonight saying that — that my very 
particular friend, Ruhannah Carew, is on board, and 
won’t she ask you to tea. You’d love her, Rue. She’s a 
regular woman.” 

“But — oh, dear! — a Princess!” 

“You won’t even notice it,” he said reassuringly. 
“She’s a corker; she’s an artist, too. I couldn’t begin 
to tell you how nice she has been to me. By the way, 
Rue, whom did you marry?” 

“Mr. Brandes.” 

“Brandes? I don’t remember — was he from up- 
state.?^” 

“No; New York— I think ” 

As she bent forward to taste her ice again he noticed 
for the first time the childlike loveliness of her throat 
and profile; looked at her with increasing interest, 
realising that she had grown into a most engaging crea- 
ture since he had seen her. 

Looking up, and beyond him toward the door, she 
said: 

“I think your friend is waiting for you. Had you 
forgotten him?” 

“Oh, that’s so!” he exclaimed. Then rising and 
offering his hand: “I wish you happiness. Rue. You 
have my address. When you return, won’t you let me 
know where you are? Won’t you let me know your 
husband ?” 

“Yes.” 

“Please do. You see you and I have a common bond 
in art, another in our birthplace. Gayfield folk are 
your own people and mine. Don’t forget me. Rue.” 

“No, I won’t.” 

So he took his leave gracefully and went awa; 
through the enthralling, glittering unreality of it afi 
110 


DRIVING HEAD-ON 


leaving a young girl thrilled, excited, and deeply im- 
pressed with his ease and bearing amid awe-inspiring 
scenes in which she, too, desired most ardently to find 
herself at ease. 

Also she thought of his friend, the Princess Mis- 
tchenka. And again, as before, the name seemed to 
evoke within her mind a recollection of having heard 
it before, very long ago. 

She wondered whether Neeland would remember to 
write, and if he did she wondered whether a real prin- 
cess would actually condescend to invite her to take tea. 


CHAPTER XI 


THE BREAKERS 

The east dining-room was almost empty now, though 
the lobby and the cafe beyond still swarmed with people 
arriving and departing. Brandes, chafing at the tele- 
phone, had finally succeeded in getting Stull on the wire, 
only to learn that the news from Saratoga was not 
agreeable; that they had lost on every horse. Also, 
Stull had another disquieting item to detail; it seemed 
that Maxy Venem had been seen that morning in the act 
of departing for New York on the fast express; and 
with him was a woman resembling Brandes’ wife. 

‘‘Who saw heri^” demanded Brandes. 

“Doc. He didn’t get a good square look at her. You 
know the hats women wear.” 

“All right. I’m off, Ben. Good-bye.” 

The haunting uneasiness which had driven him to 
the telephone persisted when he came out of the booth. 
He cast a slow, almost sleepy glance around him, saw 
no familiar face in the thronged lobby, then he looked 
at his watch. 

The car had been ordered for ten ; it lacked half an 
hour of the time; he wished he had ordered the car 
earlier. 

For now his uneasiness was verging on that species 
of superstitious inquietude which at times obsesses all 
gamblers, and which is known as a “hunch.” He had 
a hunch that he was “in wrong” somehow or other; 
an overpowering longing to get on board the steamer 
112 


THE BBEAKERS 


assailed him — a desire to get out of the city, get away 
quick. 

The risk he had taken was beginning to appear to 
him as an unwarranted piece of recklessness; he was 
amazed with himself for taking such a chance — dis- 
gusted at his foolish and totally unnecessary course 
with this young girl. All he had had to do was to wait 
a few months. He could have married in safety then. 
And even now he didn’t know whether or not the cere- 
mony performed by Parson Smawley had been an ille- 
gally legal one ; whether it made him a bigamist for the 
next three months or only something worse. What on 
earth had possessed him to take sucn a risk — the ter- 
rible hazard of discovery, of losing the only woman he 
had ever really cared for — the only one he probably 
could ever care for.'* Of course, had he been free he 
would have married her. When he got his freedom he 
would insist on another ceremony. He could persuade 
her to that on some excuse or other. But in the mean- 
while ! 

He entered the deserted dining-room, came over to 
where Rue was waiting, and sat down, heavily, holding 
an unlighted cigar between his stubby fingers. 

“Well, little girl,” he said with forced cheerfulness, 
“was I away very long?” 

“Not very.” 

“You didn’t miss me.^” he inquired, ponderously 
playful. 

His heavy pleasantries usually left her just a little 
doubtful and confused, for he seldom smiled when he 
delivered himself of them. 

He leaned across the cloth and laid a hot, cushiony 
hand over both of hers, where they lay primly clasped 
on the table edge: 


113 


THE DARK STAR 


‘‘Don’t you ever miss me when I’m away from you, 
Rue?” he asked. 

“I think — it is nice to be with you,” she said, hotly 
embarrassed by the publicity of his caress. 

“I don’t believe you mean it.” But he smiled this 
time. At which the little rigid smile stamped itself 
on her lips; but she timidly withdrew her hands from 
his. 

“Rue, I don’t believe you love me.” This time there 
was no smile. 

She found nothing to answer, being without any 
experience in give-and-take conversation, which left her 
always uncertain and uncomfortable. 

For the girl was merely a creature still in the mak- 
ing — a soft, pliable thing to be shaped to perfection 
only by the light touch of some steady, patient hand 
that understood — or to be marred and ruined by a 
heavy hand which wrought at random or in brutal haste. 

Brandes watched her for a moment out of sleepy, 
greenish eyes. Then he consulted his watch again, 
summoned a waiter, gave him the parcels-room checks, 
and bade him have a boy carry their luggage into the 
lobby. 

As they rose from the table, a man and a woman 
entering the lobby caught sight of them, halted, then 
turned and walked back toward the street door which 
they had just entered. 

Brandes had not noticed them where he stood by the 
desk, scratching off a telegram to Stull: 

“All 0. K. Just going aboard. Fix it with Stein.” 

He rejoined Rue as the boy appeared with their lug- 
gage ; an under porter took the bags and preceded them 
toward the street. 

“There’s the car !” said Brandes, with a deep breath 

114 


THE BREAKERS 


of relief. “He knows his business, that chauffeur of 
mine.” 

Their chauffeur was standing beside the car as they 
emerged from the hotel and started to cross the side- 
walk; the porter, following, set their luggage on the 
curbstone ; and at the same instant a young and pretty 
woman stepped lightly between Rue and Brandes. 

“Good evening, Eddie,” she said, and struck him a 
staggering blow in the face with her white-gloved hand. 

Brandes lost his balance, stumbled sideways, recov- 
ered himself, turned swiftly and encountered the full, 
protruding black eyes of Maxy Venem staring close 
and menacingly into his. 

From Brandes’ cut lip blood was running down over 
his chin and collar; his face remained absolutely ex- 
pressionless. The next moment his eyes shifted, met 
Ruhannah’s stupefied gaze. 

“Go into the hotel,” he said calmly. “Quick ” 

“Stay where you are!” interrupted Maxy Venem, 
and caught the speechless and bewildered girl by the 
elbow. 

Like lightning Brandes’ hand flew to his hip pocket, 
and at the same instant his own chauffeur seized both 
his heavy, short arms and held them rigid, pinned be- 
hind his back. 

“Frisk him!” he panted; Venem nimbly relieved him 
of the dull black weapon. 

“Can the fake gun-play, Eddie,” he said, coolly shov- 
ing aside the porter who attempted to interfere. 
“You’re double-crossed. We got the goods on you; 
come on; who’s the girl.^” 

The woman who had struck Brandes now came up 
again beside Venem. She was young, very pretty, but 
deathly white except for the patches of cosmetic on 
115 


THE BARK STAR 


either cheek. She pointed at Brandes. There was 
blood on her soiled and split glove: 

“You dirty dog!” she said unsteadily. “You’ll marry 
this girl before I’ve divorced you, will you.^ And you 
think you are going to get away with it! You dog! 
You dirty dog!” 

The porter attempted to interfere again, but Venem 
shoved him out of the way. Brandes, still silently 
struggling to free his imprisoned arms, ceased twisting 
suddenly and swung his heavy head toward Venem. His 
hat had fallen off ; his face, deeply flushed with exertion, 
was smeared with blood and sweat. 

“What’s the idea, you fool!” he said in a low voice. 
“I’m not married to her.” 

But Ruhannah heard him say it. 

“You claim that ycki haven’t married this girl?” de- 
manded Venem loudly, motioning toward Rue, who 
stood swaying, half dead, held fast by the gathering 
crowd which pushed around them from every side. 

“Did you marry her or did you fake it?” repeated 
Venem in a louder voice. “It’s jail one way; maybe 
both!” 

“He married her in Gayfield at eleven this morning !” 
said the chauffeur. “Parson Smawley turned the 
trick.” 

Brandes’ narrow eyes glittered; he struggled for a 
moment, gave it up, shot a deadly glance at Maxy 
Venem, at his wife, at the increasing throng crowding 
closely about hiri. Then his infuriated eyes met Rue’s, 
and the expression of her face apparently crazed him. 

Frantic, he hurled himself backward, jerking one arm 
free, tripped, fell heavily with the chauffeur on top, 
twisting, panting, struggling convulsively, while all 
around him surged the excited crowd, shouting, press- 
116 


THE BREAKERS 


ing closer, trampling one another in eagerness to see. 

Rue, almost swooning with fear, was pushed, jostled, 
flung aside. Stumbling over her own suitcase, she fell 
to her knees, rose, and, scarce conscious of what she 
was about, caught up her suitcase and reeled away 
into the light-shot darkness. 

She had no idea of what she was doing or where she 
was going ; the terror of the scene still remained luridly 
before her eyes ; the shouting of the crowd was in her 
ears ; an indescribable fear of Brandes filled her — a 
growing horror of this man who had denied that he had 
married her. And the instinct of a frightened and be- 
wildered child drove her into blind flight, anywhere to 
escape this hideous, incomprehensible scene behind her. 

Hurrying on, alternately confused and dazzled in the 
patches of darkness and flaring light, clutched at and 
followed by a terrible fear, she found herself halted on 
the curbstone of an avenue through which lighted tram- 
cars were passing. A man spoke to her, came closer; 
and she turned desperately and hurried across a street 
where other people were crossing. 

From overhead sounded the roaring dissonance of 
an elevated train ; on either side of her phantom shapes 
swarmed — figures which moved everywhere around her, 
now illumined by shop windows, now silhouetted against 
them. And always through the deafening confusion in 
her brain, the dismay, the stupefaction, one dreadful 
fear dominated — the fear of Brandes — the dread and 
horroj of this Judas who had denied her. 

She could not drive the scene from her mind — the 
never-to-be forgotten picture where he stood with blood 
from his cut lip striping his fat chin. She heard his 
voice denying her through swollen lips that scarcely 
moved — denying that he had married her. 

in 


THE DARK STAR 


And in her ears still sounded the other voice — the 
terrible words of the woman who had struck him — an 
unsteady, unreal voice accusing him; and her brain 
throbbed with the horrible repetition: “Dirty dog — 

dirty dog — dirty dog ” until, almost out of her 

mind, she dropped her bag and clapped both hands 
over her ears. 

One or two men stared at her. A taxi driver came 
from beside his car and asked her if she was ill. But 
she caught up her suitcase and hurried on without 
answering. 

She was very tired. She had come to the end of the 
lighted avenue. There was darkness ahead, a wall, 
trees, and electric lights sparkling among the foliage. 

Perhaps the sudcjn glimpse of a wide and star-set 
sky quieted her, calmed her. Freed suddenly from the 
canon of the city’s streets, the unreasoning panic of 
a trapped thing subsided a little. 

Her arm ached ; she shifted the suitcase to her other 
hand and looked across at the trees and at the high 
stars above, striving desperately for self-command. 

Something had to be done. She must find some place 
where she could sit down. Where was she to find it? 

For a while she could feel her limbs trembling; but 
gradually the heavy thudding of her pulses quieted; 
nobody molested her; nobody had followed her. That 
she was quite lost did not matter ; she had also lost this 
man who had denied her, somewhere in the depths of 
the confusion behind her. That was all that mattered 
— escape from him, from the terrible woman who had 
struck him and reviled him. 

With an effort she checked her thoughts and strug- 
gled for self-command. Somewhere in the city there 
118 


THE BREAKERS 


mu&t be a railroad station from which a train would 
take her home. 

With the thought came the desperate longing for 
flight, and a rush of tears that almost choked her. 
Nothing mattered now except her mother’s arms; the 
rest was a nightmare, the horror of a dream which still 
threatened, still clutched at her with shadowy and 
spectral menace. 

For a moment or two she stood there on the curb, 
her eyes closed, fighting for self-control, forcing her 
disorganized brain to duty. 

Somebody must help her to find a railroad station 
and a train. That gradually became clear to her. But 
when she realised that, a young man sauntered up beside 
her and looked at her so intently that her calmness 
gave way and she turned her head sharply to conceal 
the starting tears. 

‘‘Hello, girlie,” he said. “Got anythin’ on to- 
night 

With head averted, she stood there, rigid, dumb, her 
tear-drenched eyes fixed on the park; and after one or 
two jocose observations the young man became dis- 
couraged and went away. But he had thrust the fear 
of strangers deep into her heart; and now she dared 
not ask any man for information. However, when two 
young women passed she found sufficient courage to 
accost them, asking the direction of the railroad station 
from which trains departed for Gayfield. 

The women, who were young and brightly coloured 
in plumage, displayed a sympathetic interest at once. 

“Gayfield?” repeated the blonder of the two. “Gee, 
dearie, I never heard of that place.” 

“Is it on Long Island ?” inquired the other. 

“No. It is in Mohawk County.” 

119 


THE DARK STAR 


“That’s a new one, too. Mohawk County Never 
heard of it; did you, Lil.?” 

“Search me!” 

“Is it up-state, dearie asked the other. “You bet- 
ter go over to Madison Avenue and take a car to the 
Grand Central ” 

“Wait,” interrupted her friend; “she better take a 
taxi ” 

“Nix on a taxi you pick up on Sixth Avenue !” And 
to Rue, curiously sympathetic : “Say, you’ve got friends 
here, haven’t you, little one.^” 

“No.” 

“What! You don’t know anyone in New York!” 

Rue looked at her dumbly; then, of a sudden, she 
remembered Neeland. 

“Yes,” she said, “I know one person.” 

“Where does your friend live.?^” 

In her reticule was the paper on which he had writ- 
ten the address of the Art Students’ League, and, as 
an afterthought, his own address. 

Rue lifted the blue silk bag, opened it, took out her 
purse and found the paper. 

“One Hundred and Six, West Fifty-fifth Street,” she 
read; “Studio No. 10.” 

“Why, that isn’t far!” said the blonder of the two. 
“We are going that way. WVll take you there.” 

“I don’t know — I don’t know him very well ” 

“Is it a man.P” 

“Yes. He comes from my town, Gayfield.” 

“Oh! I guess that’s all right,” said the other woman, 
laughing. “You got to be leery of these men, little one. 
Come on; we’ll show you.” 

It was only four blocks; Ruhannah presently found 
herself on the steps of a house from which dangled 
120 


THE BREAKERS 


a sign, ‘‘Studios and Bachelor Apartments to 
Let.” 

“What’s his name?” said the woman addressed as Lil. 

“Mr. Neeland.” 

By the light of the vestibule lantern they inspected 
the letter boxes, found Neeland’s name, and pushed 
the electric button. 

After a few seconds the door clicked and opened. 

“Now, you’re all right!” said Lil, peering into the 
lighted hallway. “It’s on the fourth floor and there 
isn’t any elevator that I can see, so you keep on going 
upstairs till your friend meets you.” 

“Thank you so much for your great kindness ” 

“Don’t mention it. Good luck, dearie!” 

The door clicked behind her, and Rue found herself 
alone. 

The stairs, flanked by a massive balustrade of some 
dark, polished wood, ascended in spirals by a short 
series of flights and landings. Twice she rested, her 
knees almost giving way, for the climb upward seemed 
interminable. But at last, just above her, she saw a 
skylight, and a great stair-window giving on a court; 
and, as she toiled up and stood clinging, breathless, to 
the banisters on the top landing, out of an open door 
stepped Neeland’s shadowy figure, dark against the 
hall light behind him. 

“For heaven’s sake !” he said. “What on earth ” 

The suitcase fell from her nerveless hand ; she swayed 
a little where she stood. 

The next moment he had passed his arm around her, 
and was half leading, half carrying her through a 
short hallway into a big, brilliantly lighted studio. 


CHAPTER XII 


A LIFE LINE 

She had told him her story from beginning to end, 
as far as she herself comprehended it. She was lying 
sideways now, in the depths of a large armchair, her 
cheek cushioned on the upholstered wings. 

Her hat, with its cheap blue enamel pins sticking in 
the crown, lay on his desk; her hair, partly loosened, 
shadowed a young face grown pinched with weariness; 
and the reaction from shock was already making her 
grey eyes heavy and edging the under lids with bluish 
shadows. 

She had not come there with the intention of telling 
him anything. All she had wanted was a place in which 
to rest, a glass of water, and somebody to help her find 
the train to Gayfield. She told him this ; remained reti- 
cent under his questioning; finally turned her haggard 
face to the chairback and refused to answer. 

For an hour or more she remained obstinately dumb, 
motionless except for the uncontrollable trembling of 
her body ; he brought her a glass of water, sat watching 
her at intervals ; rose once or twice to pace the studio, 
his well-shaped head bent, his hands clasped behind 
his back, always returning to the comer-chair before 
the desk to sit there, eyeing her askance, waiting for 
some decision. 

But it was not the recurrent waves of terror, the ever 
latent fear of Brandes, or even her appalling loneliness 
that broke her down; it was sheer fatigue — nature’s 
122 


A LIFE LINE 


merciless third degree — ^under which mental and physi- 
cal resolution disintegrated — went all to pieces. 

And when at length she finally succeeded in recon- 
quering self-possession, she had already stammered out 
answers to his gently persuasive questions — had told 
him enough to start the fuller confession to which he 
listened in utter silence. 

And now she had told him everything, as far as she 
understood the situation. She lay sideways, deep in the 
armchair, tired, yet vaguely conscious that she was rest- 
ing mind and body, and that calm was gradually pos- 
sessing the one, and the nerves of the other were grow- 
ing quiet. 

Listlessly her grey eyes wandered around the big 
studio where shadowy and strangely beautiful but in- 
comprehensible things met her gaze, like iridescent, in- 
definite objects seen in dreams. 

These radiantly unreal splendours were only Nee- 
land’s rejected Academy pictures and studies; a few 
cheap Japanese hangings, cheaper Nippon porcelains, 
and several shaky, broken-down antiques picked up for 
a song here and there. All the trash and truck and 
dust and junk characteristic of the conventional artist’s 
habitation were there. 

But to Ruhannah this studio embodied all the won- 
ders and beauties of that magic temple to which, from 
her earliest memory, her very soul had aspired — the 
temple of the unknown God of Art. 

Vaguely she endeavoured to realise that she was now 
inside one of its myriad sanctuaries; that here under 
her very tired and youthful eyes stood one of its count- 
less altars; that here, also, near by, sat one of those 
blessed acolytes who aided in the mysteries of its won- 
drous service. 


123 


THE DARK STAR 


‘‘Ruhannah,” he said, “are you calm enough to let 
me tell you what I think about this matter?” 

“Yes. I am feeling better.” 

“Good work ! There’s no occasion for panic. What 
you need is a cool head and a clear mind.” 

She said, without stirring from where she lay rest- 
ing her cheek on the chairback : 

“My mind ha^ become quite clear again.” 

“That’s fine! Well, then, I think the thing for you 
to do is ” He took out his watch, examined it, re- 

placed it — “Good Lord !” he said. “It is three o’clock !” 

She watched him but offered no comment. He went 
to the telephone, called the New York Central Station,, 
got General Information, inquired concerning trains, 
hung up, and came back to the desk where he had been 
sitting. 

“The first train out leaves at six three,” he said. “I 
think you’d better go into my bedroom and lie down. 
I’m not tired; I’ll call you in time, and I’ll get a taxi 
and take you to your train. Does that suit you, Ru- 
hannah 

She shook her head slightly. 

“Why not.?” he asked. 

“I’ve been thinking. I can’t go back.” 

“Can’t go back! Why not?” 

“I can’t.” 

“You mean you’d feel too deeply humiliated?” 

“I wasn’t thinking of my own disgrace. I was think- 
ing of mother and father.” There was no trace of emo- 
tion in her voice; she stated the fact calmly. 

“I can’t go back to Brookhollow. It’s ended. I 
couldn’t bear to let them know what has happened to 
me.” 

“What did you think of doing?” he asked uneasily. ' 
lU 


A LIFE LINE 


“I must think of mother — I must keep my disgrace 
from touching them — spare them the sorrow — humilia- 
tion ” Her voice became tremulous, but she turned 

around and sat up in her chair, meeting his gaze 
squarely. ‘‘That’s as far as I have thought,” she said. 

Both remained silent for a long while. Then Ru- 
hannah looked up from her pale preoccupation: 

“I told you I had three thousand dollars. Why 
can’t I educate myself in art with that? Why can’t 
I learn how to support myself by art?” 

“Where?” 

“Here.” 

“Yes. But what are you going to say to your pa- 
rents when you write? They suppose you are on your 
way to Paris.” 

She nodded, looking at him thoughtfully. 

“By the way,” he added, “is your trunk on board 
the Lusitania?'* 

“Yes.” 

“That won’t do! Have you the check for it?” 

“Yes, in my purse.” 

“We’ve got to get that trunk off the ship,” he said. 
“There’s only one sure way. I’d better go down now, 
to the pier. Where’s your steamer ticket?” 

“I — I have both tickets and both checks in my bag. 

He — let me have the p-pleasure of carrying them ” 

Again her voice broke childishly, but the threatened 
emotion was strangled and resolutely choked back. 

“Give me the tickets and checks,” he said. “I’ll go 
down to the dock now.” 

She drew out the papers, sat holding them for a few 
moments without relinquishing them. Then she raised 
her eyes to his, and a bright flush stained her 
face: 


125 


THE DARK STAR 


“Why should I not go to Paris by myself?” she 
demanded. 

“You mean now? On this ship?” 

“Yes. Why not? I have enough money to go there 
and study, haven’t I?” 

“Yes. But ” 

“Why not!” she repeated feverishly, her grey eyes 
sparkling. “I have three thousand dollars; I can’t 
go back to Brookhollow and disgrace them. What 
does it matter where I go.^” 

“It would be all right,” he said, “if you’d ever had 
any experience ” 

“Experience! What do you call what I’ve had to- 
day!” She exclaimed excitedly. “To lose in a single 
day my mother, my home — to go through in fhis city 
what I have gone through — what I am going through 
now — is not that enough experience? Isn’t it?” 

He said: 

“You’ve had a rotten awakening. Rue — a perfectly 
devilish experience. Only — you’ve never travelled 

alone ” Suddenly it occurred to him that his lively 

friend, the Princess Mistchenka, was sailing on the 
Lusitania; and he remained silent, uncertain, looking 
with vague misgivings at this girl in the armchair op- 
posite — this thin, unformed, inexperienced child who 
had attained neither mental nor physical maturity. 

“I think,” he said at length, “that I told you I had 
a friend sailing on the Lusitania tomorrow.” 

She remembered and nodded. 

“But wait a moment,” he added. “How do you 
know that this — this fellow Brandes will not attempt to 

sail on her, also ” Something checked him, for in 

the girl’s golden-grey eyes he saw a flame glimmer; 
something almost terrible came into the child’s still 
126 


A LIFE LINE 


gaze; and slowly died out like the afterglow of light- 
ning. 

And Neeland knew that in her soul something had 
been born under his very eyes — the first emotion of 
maturity bursting from the chrysalis — the flaming con- 
sciousness of outrage, and the first, fierce assumption 
of womanhood to resent it. 

She had lost her colour now; her grey eyes still re- 
mained fixed on his, but the golden tinge had left them. 

don’t know why you shouldn’t go,” he said 
abruptly. 

‘‘I am going.” 

‘‘All right! And if he has the nerve to go — if he 
bothers you — appeal to the captain.” 

She nodded absently. 

“But I don’t believe he’ll try to sail. I don’t believe 
he’d dare, mixed up as he is in a dirty mess. He’s 
afraid of the law, I tell you. That’s why he denied mar- 
rying you. It meant bigamy to admit it. Anyway, I 
don’t think a fake ceremony like that is binding ; I mean 
that it isn’t even real enough to put him in jail. Which 
means that you’re not married. Rue.” 

“Does it.^” 

“I think so. Ask a lawyer, anyway. There may be 
steps to take — I don’t know. All the same — do you 
really want to go to France and study art.? Do you 
really mean to sail on this ship.?” 

“Yes.” 

“You feel confidence in yourself? You feel sure of 
yourself?” 

“Yes.” 

“You’ve got the backbone to see it through?” 

“Yes. It’s got to be done.” 

“All right, if you feel that way.” He made no move, 

m 


THE DARK STAR 


however, but sat there watching her. After a while he 
looked at his watch a:gain: 

“I’m going to ring up a taxi,” he said. “You might 
as well go on board and get some sleep. What time 
does she sail?” 

“At five thirty, I believe.” 

“Well, we haven’t so very long, then. There’s my 
bedroom — if you want to fix up.” 

She rose wearily. 

When she emerged from his room with her hat and 
gloves on, the taxicab was audible in the street below. 

Together they descended the dark stairway up which 
she had toiled with trembling knees. He carried her 
suitcase, aided her into the taxi. 

“Cunard Line,” he said briefly, and entered the cab. 

Already in the darkness of early morning the city 
was awake; workmen were abroad; lighted tramcars 
passed with passengers ; great wains, trucks, and coun- 
try wagons moved slowly toward markets and ferries. 

He had begun to tell her almost immediately all that 
he knew about Paris, the life there in the students’ 
quarters, methods of living economically, what to seek 
and what to avoid — a homily rather hurried and con- 
densed, as they sped toward the pier. 

She seemed to be listening ; he could not be sure that 
she understood or that her mind was fixed at all on 
what he was saying. Even while speaking, numberless 
objections to her going occurred to him, but as he had 
no better alternatives to suggest he did not voice them. 

In his heart he really believed she ought to go back 
to Brookhollow. It was perfectly evident she would 
not consent to go there. As for her remaining in New 
York, perhaps the reasons for her going to Paris were 
as good. He was utterly unable to judge ; he only knew 
128 


A LIFE LINE 


that she ought to have the protection of experience, 
and that was lacking. 

“Pm going to remain on board with you,” he said, 
^‘until she sails. Pm going to try to find my very good 
friend, the Princess Mistchenka, and have you meet 
her. She has been very kind to me, and I shall ask her 
, to keep an eye on you while you are crossing, and to 
' give you a lot of good advice.” 

“A — princess,” said Rue in a tired, discouraged 
voice, ‘‘is not very likely to pay any attention to me, I 
think.” 

“She’s one of those Russian or Caucasian princesses. 
You know they don’t rank very high. She told me her- 
self. She’s great fun — full of life and wit and intelli- 
gence and wide experience. She knows a lot about 
everything and everybody ; she’s been everywhere, trav- 
elled all over the globe.” 

“I don’t think,” repeated Rue, “that she would care 
for me at all.” 

“Yes, she would. She’s young and warm-hearted and 
human. Besides, she is interested in art — knows a lot 
about it — even paints very well herself.” 

“She must be wonderful.” 

“No — she’s just a regular woman. It was because 
she was interested in art that she came to the League, 
and I was introduced to her. That is how I came to 
know her. She comes sometimes to my studio.” 

“Yes, but you are already an artist, and an in- 
teresting man ” 

“Oh, Rue, I’m just beginning. She’s kind, that’s 
all — an energetic, intelligent woman, full of interest in 
life. I know she’ll give you some splendid advice — tell 
you how to get settled in Paris — ^Lord! You don’t 
even know French, do you?” 

129 


THE DARK STAR 


‘‘No.” 

“Not a word?” 

“No. ... I don’t know anything, Mr. Neeland.” 

He tried to laugh reassuringly: 

“I thought it was to be Jim, not Mister,” he re- 
minded her. 

But she only looked at him out of troubled eyes. 

In the glare of the pier’s headlights they descended. 
Passengers were entering the vast, damp enclosure; 
porters, pier officers, ship’s officers, sailors, passed to 
and fro as they moved toward the gangway where, in 
the electric glare of lamps, the clifFlike side of the 
gigantic liner loomed up. 

At sight of the monster ship Rue’s heart leaped, 
quailed, leaped again. As she set one slender foot on 
the gangway such an indescribable sensation seized her 
that she caught at Neeland’s arm and held to it, al- 
most faint with the violence of her emotion. 

A steward took the suitcase, preceded them down 
abysmal and gorgeous stairways, through salons, deep 
into the dimly magnificent bowels of the ocean giant, 
then through an endless white corridor twinkling with 
lights, to a stateroom, where a stewardess ushered 
them in. 

There was nobody there; nobody had been there. 

“He dare not come,” whispered Neeland in Ruhan- 
nah’s ear. 

The girl stood in the centre of the stateroom looking 
silently about her. 

“Have you any English and French money?” he 
asked. 

“No.” 

“Give me — well, say two hundred dollars, and I’ll 
have the purser change it.” 

130 


A LIFE LINE 


She went to her suitcase, where it stood on the 
lounge; he unstrapped it for her; she found the big 
packet of treasury notes and handed them to him. 

“Good heavens !” he muttered. “This won’t do. I’m 
going to have the purser lock them in the safe and give 
me a receipt. Then when you meet the Princess Mis- 
tchenka, tell her what I’ve done and ask her advice. Will 
you, Rue?” 

“Yes, thank you.” 

“You’ll wait here for me, won’t you.^” 

“Yes.” 

So he noted the door number and went away hastily 
in search of the purser, to do what he could in the 
matter of foreign money for the girl. And on the 
upper companionway he met the Princess Mistchenka 
descending,, preceded by porters with her luggage. 

“James!” she exclaimed. “Have you come aboard 
to elope with me? Otherwise, what are you doing on 
the Lusitania at this very ghastly hour in the mom- 
ing?” 

She was smiling into his face and her daintily gloved 
hand retained his for a moment; then she passed her 
arm through his. 

“Follow the porter,” she said, “and tell me what 
brings you here, my gay young friend. You see I am 
wearing the orchids you sent me. Do you really mean 
to add yourself to this charming gift?” 

He told her the story of Ruhannah Carew as briefly 
as he could; at her stateroom door they paused while 
he continued the story, the Princess Mistchenka looking 
at him very intently while she listened, and never utter- 
ing a word. 

She was a pretty woman, not tall, rather below middle 
stature, perhaps, beautifully proportioned and per- 
131 


THE DARK STAR 


fectly gowned. Hair and eyes were dark as velvet ; her 
skin was old ivory and rose ; and always her lips seemed 
about to part a little in the faint and provocative 
smile which lay latent in the depths of her brown eyes. 

*'Mon Dieur she said, “what a history of woe you 
are telling me, my friend James! What a tale of inno- 
cence and of deception and outraged trust is this that 
you relate to me ! Allons! Vite! Let us find this poor, 
abandoned infant — this unhappy victim of your sex’s 
well-known duplicity!” 

“She isn’t a victim, you know,” he explained. 

“I see. Only almost — — victim. Yes.^ Where is 
this child, then.?” 

“May I bring her to you. Princess .?” 

“But of course! Bring her. I am not afraid — so 
far — to look any woman in the face at five o’clock in 
the morning.” And the threatened smile flashed out 
in her fresh, pretty face. 

When he came back with Rue Carew, the Princess 
Mistchenka was conferring with her maid and with her 
stewardess. She turned to look at Rue as Neeland came 
up — continued to scrutinise her intently while he was 
presenting her. 

There ensued a brief silence ; the Princess glanced at 
Neeland, then her dark eyes returned directly to the 
young girl before her, and she held out her hand, 
smilingly : 

“Miss Carew — I believe I know exactly what your 
voice is going to be like. I think I have heard, in 
America, such a voice once or twice. Speak to me and 
prove me right.” 

Rue flushed : 

“What am I to say?” she asked naively, 

132 


A LIFE LINE 


“I knew I was right,” exclaimed the Princess Mis- 
tchenka gaily. ‘‘Come into my stateroom and let each 
one of us discover how agreeable is the other. Shall 
we — my dear child.?*” 

When Neeland returned from a visit to the purser 
with a pocket full of British and French gold and silver 
for Ruhannah, he knocked at the stateroom door of 
the Princess Mistchenka. 

That lively personage opened it, came out into the 
corridor holding the door partly closed behind her. 

“She’s almost dead with fatigue and grief. I un- 
dressed her myself. She’s in my bed. She has been 
crying.” 

“Poor little thing,” said Neeland. 

“Yes.” 

“Here’s her money,” he said, a little awkwardly. 

The Princess opened her wrist bag and he dumped 
in the shining torrent. 

“Shall I — call good-bye to her.?*” he asked. 

‘Wou may go in, James.” 

They entered together; and he was startled to see 
how young she seemed there on the pillows — how piti- 
fully immature the childish throat, the tear-flushed face 
lying in its mass of chestnut hair. 

“Good-bye, Rue,” he said, still awkward, oflPering his 
hand. 

Slowly she held out one slim hand from the covers. 

“Good voyage, good luck,” he said. “I wish you 
would write a line to me.” 

“I will.” 

“Then ” He smiled; released her hand. 

“Thank you for — for all you have done,” she said. 
“I shall not forget.” 


133 


THE DARK STAR 


Something choked him slightly ; he forced a laugh : 

‘‘Come back a famous painter, Rue. Keep your head 
clear and your heart full of courage. And let me know 
how you’re getting on, won’t you?” 

“Yes. . . . Good-bye.” 

So he went out, and at the door exchanged adieux 
with the smiling Princess. 

“Do you — like her a little?” he whispered. 

“I do, my friend. Also — I like you. I am old enough 
to say it safely, am I not?” 

“If you think so,” he said, a funny little laugh in 
his eyes, “you are old enough to let me kiss you good- 
bye.” 

But she backed away, still smiling: 

“On the brow — the hair — yes ; if you promise discre- 
tion, James.” 

“What has tottering age like yours to do with dis- 
cretion, Princess Nai’a?” he retorted impudently. “A 
kiss on the mouth must of itself be discreet when be- 
stowed on youth by such venerable years as are yours.” 

But the Princess, the singularly provocative smile 
still edging her lips, merely looked at him out of dark^ 
and slightly humorous eyes, gave him her hand, with- 
drew it with decision, and entered her stateroom, clos- 
ing the door rather sharply behind her. 

When Neeland got back to the studio he took a cou- 
ple of hours’ sleep, and, being young, perfectly healthy, 
and perhaps not unaccustomed to the habits of the 
owl family, felt pretty well when he went out to break- 
fast. 

Over his coffee cup he propped up his newspaper 
^^gainst a carafe; and the heading on one of the col 
wixnns immediately attracted his attention. 

134f 


A LIFE LINE 


ROW BETWEEN SPORTING MEN 

EDDIE BRANDES, FIGHT PROMOTER AND 
THEATRICAL MAN, MIXES IT WITH 
MAXY VENEM 

A WOMAN SAID TO BE THE CAUSE: AFFRAY DRAWS 
A BIG CROWD IN FRONT OF THE HOTEL 
KNICKERBOCKER 

BOTK BADB7 BATTERED, GST AWAY BSFORE TBB 

POEICE ARRIVE 

Breakfasting leisurely, he read the partly humoroiis, 
partly contemptuous account of the sordid affair. 
Afterward he sent for all the morning papers. But 
in none of them was Ruhannah Carew mentioned at all, 
nobody, apparently, having noticed her in the exciting 
affair between Venem, Brandes, the latter’s wife, and 
the chauffeur. 

Nor did the evening papers add anything material 
to the account, except to say that Brandes had been 
interviewed in his ofSce at the Silhouette Theatre and 
that he stated that he had not engaged in any personal 
encounter with anybody, had not seen Max Venem in 
months, had not been near the Hotel Knickerbocker, 
and knew nothing about the affair in question. 

He also permitted a dark hint or two to escape him 
concerning possible suits for defamation of character 
against irresponsible newspapers. 

The accounts in the various evening editions agreed, 
however, that when interviewed, Mr. Brandes was nurs- 
ing a black eye and a badly swollen lip, which, accord- 
ing to him, he had acquired in a playful sparring er- 
135 


THE DARK STAR 


counter with his business manager, Mr. Benjamin Stull. 

And that was all ; the big town had neither time nor 
inclination to notice either Brandes or Venem any 
further; Broadway completed the story for its own 
edification, and, by degrees, arrived at its own con- 
clusions. Only nobody could discover who was the 
young girl concerned, or where she came from or what 
might be her name. And, after a few days, Broadway, 
also, forgot the matter amid the tarnished tinsel and 
raucous noises of its own mean and multifarious pre« 
occupations. 


CHAPTER XIII 


LETTERS FROM A LITTLE GIRL 

Neeland had several letters from Ruhannah Carew 
that autumn and winter. The first one was written a 
few weeks after her arrival in Paris : 

Dear Mr. Neeland; 

Please forgive me for writing to you, but I am home- 
sick. 

I have written every week to mother and have made 
my letters read as though I were still married, because 
it would almost kill her if she knew the truth. 

Some day I shall have to tell her, but not yet. Could 
you tell me how you think the news ought to be broken 
to her and father.^ 

That man was not on the steamer. I was quite ill cross- 
ing the ocean. But the last two days I went on deck with 
the Princess Mistchenka and her maid, and I enjoyed the 
sea. 

The Princess has been so friendly. I should have died, 
I think, without her, what with my seasickness and home- 
sickness, and brooding over my terrible fall. I know it 
is immoral to say so, but I did not want to live any longer, 
truly I didn’t. I even asked to be taken. I am sorry now 
that I prayed that way. 

Well, I have passed through the most awful part of my 
life, I think. I feel strange and different, as though I 
had been very sick, and had died, and as though it were 
another girl sitting here writing to you, and not the girl 
who was in your studio last August. 

I had always expected happiness some day. Now I 
know I shall never have it. Girls dream many foolish 
things about the future. They have such dear, silly hopes. 

All dreams are ended for me; all that remains in life 

137 


THE DARK STAR 


for me is to work very hard so that I can learn to sup- 
port myself and my parents. I should like to make a 
great deal of money so that when I die I can leave it to 
charity. I desire to be remembered for my good works. 
But of course I shall first have to learn how to take care 
of myself and mother and father before I can aid the 
poor. I often think of becoming a nun and going out to 
nurse lepers. Only I don’t know where there are any. 
Do you? 

Paris is very large and a sort of silvery grey colour, 
full of trees with yellowing leaves — ^but Oh, it is so lonely, 
Mr. Neeland! I am determined not to cry every day, 
but it is quite difficult not to. And then there are so 
many, many people, and they all talk French! They talk 
very fast, too, even the little children. 

This seems such an ungrateful letter to write you, who 
were so good and kind to me in my dreadful hour of trial 
and disgrace. I am afraid you won’t understand how full 
of gratitude I am, to you and to the Princess Mistchenka. 

I have the prettiest little bedroom in her house. 
There is a pink shade on my night lamp. She insisted 
that I go home with her, and I had to, because I didn’t 
know where else to go, and she wouldn’t tell me. In 
fact, I can’t go anywhere or find any place because I 
speak no French at all. It’s humiliating, isn’t it, for 
even the very little children speak French in Paris. ' 

But I have begun to learn; a cheerful old lady comes 
for an hour every day to teach me. Only it is very hard 
for me, because she speaks no English and I am forbidden 
to utter one word of my own language. And so far I 
understand nothing that she says, which makes me more 
lonely than I ever was in all my life. But sometimes it 
is so absurd that we both laugh. 

I am to study drawing and painting at a studio for 
women. The kind Princess has arranged it. I am also 
to study piano and voice culture. This I did not suppose 
would be possible with the money I have, but the Princess 
Mistchenka, who has asked me to let her take charge of 
my money and my expenses, says that I can easily afford 
it. She knows, of course, what things cost, and what I 
am able to afford; and I trust her willingly because she 

1S8 


LETTERS FROM A LITTLE GIRL 


is SO dear and sweet to me, but I am a little frightened 
at the dresses she is having made for me. They can*t 
be inexpensive! — Such lovely clothes and shoes and hats — 
and other things about which I never even heard in Brook- 
hollow. 

I ought to be happy, Mr. Neeland, but everything is so 
new and strange — even Sunday is not restful; and how 
different is Notre Dame de Paris and Saint Eustache from 
our church at Gayfield! The high arches and jewelled 
windows and the candles and the dull roar of the organ 
drove from my mind those quiet and solemn thoughts of 
God which always filled my mind so naturally and peace- 
fully in our church at home. I couldn’t think of Him; 
I couldn’t even try to pray ; it was as though an ocean were 
rolling and thundering over me where I lay drowned in a 
most deep place. 

Well, I must close, because dejeuner is ready — you see 
I know one French word, after all! And one other— 
*^Bonjour, monsieur !** — which counts two, doesn’t it.^ — or 
three in all. 

It has made me feel better to write to you. I hope you 
will not think it a presumption. 

And now I shall say thank you for your great kind- 
ness to me in your studio on that most frightful night of 
my life. It is one of those things that a girl can never, 
never forget — your aid in my hour of need. Through all 
my shame and distress it was your help that sustained me; 
for I was so stunned by my disgrace that I even forgot 
God himself. 

But I will prove that I am thankful to Him, and worthy 
of your goodness to me; I will profit by this dreadful 
humiliation and devote my life to a more worthy and lofty 
purpose than merely getting married just because a man 
asked me so persistently and I was too young and ignorant 
to continue saying no! Also, I did want to study art. 
How stupid, how immoral I was ! 

And now nobody would ever want to marry me again 
after this — and also it’s against the law, I imagine. But 
I don’t care; I never, never desire to marry another man. 
All I want is to learn how to support myself by art; 
and some day perhaps I shall forget what has happened 

139 


THE DARK STAR 


to me and perhaps find a little pleasure in life when I 
am very old. 

With every wish and prayer for your happiness and 
success in this world of sorrow, believe me your grateful 
friend. Rue Carew. 

Every naive and laboured line of the stilted letter 
touched and amused and also flattered Neeland; for 
no young man is entirely insensible to a young girl’s 
gratitude. An agreeable warmth suffused him; it 
pleased him to remember that he had been associated 
in the moral and social rehabilitation of Rue Carew. 

He meant to write her some kind, encouraging advice ; 
he had every intention of answering*her letter. But in 
New York young men are very busy ; or think they are. 
For youth days dawn and vanish in the space of a fire- 
fly’s lingering flash; and the moments swarm by like 
a flight of distracted golden butterflies; and a young 
man is ever at their heels in breathless chase with as 
much chance of catching up with the elusive moment as 
a squirrel has of outstripping the wheel in which he 
whirls. 

So he neglected to reply — ^waited a little too long. 
Because, while her childish letter still remained un- 
answered, came a note from the Princess Mistchenka, 
enclosing a tremulous line from Rue: 

Mon cher James: 

Doubtless you have already heard of the sad death of 
Ruhannah’s parents — within a few hours of each other — 
both stricken with pneumonia within the same week. The 
local minister cabled her as Mrs. Brandes in my care. 
Then he wrote to the child; the letter has just arrived. 

' My poor little protegee is prostrated — ^talks wildly of 
going back at once. But to what purpose now, mon ami? 
Her loved ones will have been in their graves for days be" 
fore Ruhannah could arrive. 

140 


LETTERS FROM A LITTLE GIRL 


No; I shall keep her here. She is young; she shall 
be kept busy every instant of the day. That is the only 
antidote for grief.; youth and time its only cure. 

Please write to the Baptist minister at Gay field, James, 
and find out what is to be done; and have it done. Judge 
Cary, at Orangeville, had charge of the Reverend Mr. 
Carew’s affairs. Let him send the necessary papers to 
Ruhannah here. I enclose a paper which she has executed, 
conferring power of attorney. If a guardian is to be 
appointed, I shall take steps to qualify through the good 
offices of Lejeune Brothers, the international lawyers 
whom I have put into communication with Judge Cary 
through the New York representatives of the firm. 

There are bound to be complications, I fear, in regard 
to this mock marriage of hers. I have consulted my at- 
torneys here and they are not very certain that the cere- 
mony was not genuine enough to require further legal 
steps to free her entirely. A suit for annulment is possi- 
ble. 

Please have the house at Brookhollow locked up and 
keep the keys in your possession for the present. Judge 
Cary will have the keys sent to you. 

James, dear, I am very deeply indebted to you for 
giving to me my little friend, Ruhannah Carew. Now, I 
wish to make her entirely mine by law until the inevitable 
day arrives when some man shall take her from me. 

Write to her, James; don’t be selfish. 

Yours always. 


Naia. 


The line enclosed from Ruhannah touched him deeply : 


I cannot speak of it yet. Please, when you go to Brook- 
hollow, have flowers planted. You know where our plot 
is. Have it made pretty for them. 

Rue. 

He wrote at once exactly the sort of letter that an 
impulsive, warm-hearted young man might take time 
to write to a bereaved friend. He was genuinely 

141 


THE DARK STAR 


grieved and sorry for her, but he was glad when his 
letter was finished and mailed, and he could turn his 
thoughts into other and gayer channels. 

To this letter she replied, thanking him for what 
he had written and for what he had done to make the 
plot in the local cemetery ‘‘pretty.” 

She asked him to keep the keys to the house in Brook- 
hollow. Then followed a simple report of her quiet 
and studious daily life in the home of the Princess 
Mistchenka ; of her progress in her studies ; of her hopes 
that in due time she might become sufficiently educated 
to take care of herself. 

It was a slightly dull, laboured, almost emotionless 
letter. Always willing to shirk correspondence, he per- 
suaded himself that the letter called for no immediate 
answer. After all, it was not to be expected that a very 
young girl whom a man had met only twice^in his life 
could hold his interest very long, when absent. How- 
ever, he meant to write her again ; thought of doing so 
several times during the next twelve months. 

It was a year before another letter came from her. 
And, reading it, he was a little surprised to discover 
how rapidly immaturity can mature under the shock 
of circumstances and exotic conditions which tend to- 
ward forced growth. 

Mon CHER ami: 

I was silly enough to hope you might write to me. But I 
suppose you have far more interesting and important mat- 
ters to occupy you. 

Still, don’t you sometimes remember the girl you drove 
home with in a sleigh one winter night, ages ago.^ Don’t 
you sometimes think of the girl who came creeping up- 
stairs, half dead, to your studio door.^ And don’t you 
sometimes wonder what has become of her? 

Why is it that a girl is always more loyal to past mene* 

142 


LETTERS FROM A LITTLE GIRL 


ories than a man ever is? Don’t answer that it is because 
she has less to occupy her than a man has. You have no 
idea how busy I have been during this long year in which 
you have forgotten me. 

Among other things I have been busy growing. I am 
taller by two inches than when last I saw you. Please be 
impressed by my five feet eight inches. 

Also, I am happy. The greatest happiness in the world 
is to have the opportunity to learn about that same world. 

I am happy because I now have that opportunity. 
During these many months since I wrote to you I have 
learned a little French; I read some, write some, under- 
stand pretty well, and speak a little. What a pleasure, 
mon ami! 

Piano and vocal music, too, occupy me; I love both, and 
I am told encouraging things. But best and most delight- 
ful of all I am learning to draw and compose and paint 
from life in the Academie Julian! Think of it! It is 
difficult, it is absorbing, it requires energy, persistence, self- 
denial; but it is fascinating, satisfying, glorious. 

Also, it is very trying, mon ami; and I descend into 
depths of despair and I presently soar up out of those 
depressing depths into intoxicating altitudes of aspiration 
and self-confidence. 

You yourself know how it is, of course. At the criticism 
today I was lifted to the seventh heaven. **Pas mol/* he 
said; *'coniinueZy mademoiselle/* Which is wonderful for 
him. Also my weekly sketch was chosen from among all 
the others, and I was given number one. That means my 
choice of tabourets on Monday morning, voyez vousf So 
do you wonder that I came home with Suzanne, walking 
on air, and that as soon as dejeuner was finished I flew in 
here to write to you about it? 

Suzanne is our maid — the maid of Princess Nai'a, of 
course — who walks to and from school with me. I didn’t 
wish her to follow me about at first, but the Princess in- 
sisted, and I’m resigned to it now. 

The Princess Mistchenka is such a darling! I owe her 
more than I owe anybody except mother and father. She 
simply took me as I was, a young, stupid, ignorant, awk- 
ward country girl with no experience, no savoir-faire, no 

US 


THE DARK STAR 


clothes, and even no knowledge of how to wear them; 
and she is trying to make out of me a fairly intelligent 
and presentable human being who will not offend her by 
gaucheries when with her, and who will not disgrace her 
when in the circle of her friends. 

Oh, of course I still make a faux pas now and then, 
mon ami; there are dreadful pitfalls in the French 
language into which I have fallen more than once. And 
at times I have almost died of mortification. But every- 
body is so amiable and patient, so polite, so gay about my 
mistakes. I am beginning to love the French. And I am 
learning so much! I had no idea what a capacity I had 
for learning things. But then, with Princess Naia, and 
with my kind and patient teachers and my golden op- 
portunities, even a very stupid girl must learn something. 
And I am not really very stupid; I’ve discovered that. On 
the contrary, I really seem to learn quite rapidly; and 
all that annoys me is that there is so much to learn and 
the days are not long enough, so anxious am I, so am- 
bitious, so determined to get out of this wonderful op- 
portunity everything I possibly can extract. 

I have lived in these few months more years than my 
own age adds up ! I am growing old and wise very fast. 
Please hasten to write to me before I have grown so old 
that you would not recognize me if you met me. 

Your friend, 

Ruhannah. 


The letter flattered him. He was rather glad he had 
once kissed the girl who could write such a letter. 

He happened to be engaged, at that time, in drawing 
several illustrations for a paper called the Midweek 
Magazine, There was a heroine, of course, in the story 
he was illustrating. And, from memory, and in spite 
of the model posing for him, he made the face like the 
face of Ruhannah Carew. 

But the days passed, and he did not reply to her 
letter. Then there came still another letter from her: 

144 


LETTERS FROM A LITTLE GIRL 


Why don’t you write me just one line? Have you 
really forgotten me? You’d like me if you knew me 
now, I think. I am really quite grown up. And I am so 
happy ! 

The Princess is simply adorable. Always we are busy, 
Princess Naia and I; and now, since I have laid aside 
mourning, we go to concerts; we go to plays; we have 
been six times to the opera, and as many more to the 
Theatre Fran9ais; we have been to the Louvre and the 
Luxembourg many times; to St. Cloud, Versailles, Fon- 
tainebleau. 

Always, when my studies are over, we do something in- 
teresting; and I am beginning to know Paris, and to care 
for it with real affection; to feel secure and happy and at 
home in this dear, glittering, silvery-grey city — full of 
naked trees and bridges and palaces. And, sometimes 
when I feel homesick, and lonely, and when Brookhollow 
seems very, very far away, it troubles me a little to find 
that I am not nearly so homesick as I think I ought to be. 
But I think it must be like seasickness; it is too frightful 
to last. 

The Princess Mistchenka has nursed me through the 
worst. All I can say is that she is very wonderful. 

On her day, which is Thursday, her pretty salon is 
thronged. At first I was too shy and embarrassed to be 
anything but frightened and self-conscious and very miser- 
able when I sat beside her on her Thursdays. Besides, 
I was in mourning and did not appear on formal occa- 
sions. 

Now it is different; I take my place beside her; I am 
not self-conscious; I am interested; I find pleasure in 
knowing people who are so courteous, so considerate, so 
gay and entertaining. 

Everybody is agreeable and gay, and I am sorry that 
I miss so much that is witty in what is said; but I am 
learning French very rapidly. 

The men are polite to me! At first I was so frauche, 
so stupid and provincial, that I could not bear to have any- 
body kiss my hand and pay me compliments. I’ve made 
a lot of other mistakes, too, but I never make the same 
mistake twice. 


145 


THE DARK STAR 


So many interesting men come to our Thursdays; and 
some women. I prefer the men, I think. There is one 
old French General who is a dear; and there are young 
officers, too; and yesterday two cabinet ministers and sev- 
eral people from the British and Russian embassies. And 
the Turkish Charge, whom I dislike. 

The women seem to be agreeable, and they all are most 
beautifully gowned. Some have titles. But all seem to be 
a little too much made up. I don’t know any of them ex- 
cept formally. But I feel that I know some of the men 
better — especially the old General and a young military 
attache of the Russian Embassy, whom everybody likes 
and pets, and whom everybody calls Prince Erlik — such 
a handsome boy! And his real name is Alak, and I think 
he is very much in love with Princess Naia. 

Now, something very odd has happened which I wish 
to tell you about. My father, as you know, was mis- 
sionary in the Vilayet of Trebizond many years ago. 
While there he came into possession of a curious sea chest 
belonging to a German named Conrad Wilner, who was 
killed in a riot near Gallipoli. 

In this chest were, and still are, two very interesting 
things — an old bronze Chinese figure which I used to play 
with when I was a child. It was called the Yellow De^^il; 
and a native Chinese missionary once read for us the 
inscriptiOii**on the figure which identified it as a Mongol 
demon called Erlik, the Prince of Darkness. 

The other object of interest in the box was the manu- 
script diary kept by this Herr Wilner to within a few 
moments of his death. This I have often heard read 
aloud by my father, but I forget much of it now, and I 
never understood it all, because I was too young. Now, 
here is the curious thing about it all. The first time you 
spoke to me of the Princess Naia Mistchenka, I had a 
hazy idea that her name seemed familiar to me. And ever 
since I have known her, now and then I found myself try- 
ing to recollect where I had heard that name, even before 
I heard it from you. 

Suddenly, one evening about a week ago, it came to me 
that I had heard both the names, Naia and Mistchenka, 
when I was a child. Also the name Erlik. The two 

146 


LETTERS FR03I A LITTLE GIRL 


former names occur in Herr Wilner’s diary; the latter 
I heard from the Chinese missionary years ago; and that 
is why they seemed so familiar to me. 

It is so long since I have read the diary that I can’t 
remember the story in which the names Naia and Mist- 
chenka are concerned. As I recollect, it was a tragic story 
that used to thrill me. 

At any rate, I didn’t speak of this to Princess Nai'a; but 
about a week ago there were a few people dining here 
with us — among others an old Turkish Admiral, Murad 
Pasha, who took me out. And as soon as I heard his name 
I thought of that diary; and I am sure it was mentioned 
in it. 

Anyway, he happened to speak of Trebizond; and, 
naturally, I said that my father had been a missionary 
there many years ago. 

As this seemed to interest him, and because he ques- 
tioned me, I told him my father’s name and all that I 
knew in regard to his career as a missionary in the Treb- 
izond district. And, somehow — I don’t exactly recollect 
how it came about — I spoke of Herr Wilner, and his death 
at Gallipoli, and how his effects came into my father’s 
possession. 

And because the old, sleepy-eyed Admiral seemed so 
interested and amused, I told him about Herr Wilner’s 
box and his diary and the plans and maps and photographs 
with which I used to play as a little child. 

After dinner. Princess Nai'a asked me what it was I 
had been telling Murad Pasha to wake him up so com- 
pletely and to keep him so amused. So I merely said that 
I had been telling the Admiral about my childhood in 
Brookhollow. 

Naturally neither she nor I thought about the incident 
any further. Murad did not come again; but a few days 
later the Turkish Charge d’Affaires was present at a very 
large dinner given by Princess Na'ia. 

And two curious conversations occurred at that dinner: 

The Turkish Charge suddenly turned to me and aske^ 
me in English whether I were not the daughter of the 
Reverend Wilbour Carew who once was in charge of the 
American Mission near Trebizond. I was so surprised 

147 


THE DARK STAR 


at the question; but I answered yes, remembering that 
Murad must have mentioned me to him. 

He continued to ask me about my father, and spoke of 
his efforts to establish a girls’ school, first at Brusa, then 
at Tchardak, and finally near Gallipoli. I told him I had 
often heard my father speak of these matters with my 
mother, but that I was too young to remember anything 
about my own life in Turkey. 

All the while we were conversing, I noticed that the 
Princess kept looking across the table at us as though 
some chance word had attracted her attention. 

After dinner, when the gentlemen had retired to the 
smoking room, the Princess took me aside and made me 
repeat everything that Ahmed Mirka had asked me. 

I told her. She said that the Turkish Charge was an 
old busybody, always sniffing about for all sorts of infor- 
mation; that it was safer to be reticent and let him do the 
talking; and that almost every scrap of conversation with 
him was mentally noted and later transcribed for the 
edification of the Turkish Secret Service. 

I thought this very humorous; but going into the little 
salon where the piano was and where the music was kept, 
while I was looking for an old song by Messager, from 
**La Basoche,” called *Me suis aime de la plus belle — ” 
Ahmed Mirka’s handsome attache. Colonel Izzet Bey, came 
up to where I was rummaging in the music cabinet. 

He talked nonsense in French and in English for a 
while, but somehow the conversation led again toward my 
father and the girls’ school at Gallipoli which had been 
attacked and burned by a mob during the first month after 
it had been opened, and where the German, Herr Wilner, 
had been killed. 

“Monsieur, your reverend father, must surely have told 
you stories about the destruction of the Gallipoli school, 
mademoiselle,” he insisted. 

“Yes. It happened a year before the mission at 
Trebizond was destroyed by the Turks,” I said maliciously. 

“So I have heard. What a pity! Our Osmanli — our 
peasantry are so stupid ! And it was such a fine school. A 
German engineer was killed there, I believe.” 

“Yes, my father said so.” 

148 


LETTERS FROM A LITTLE GIRL 


“A certain Herr Conrad Wilner, was it not?’* 

*‘Yes. How did you hear of him, Colonel Izzet?” 

*‘It was known in Stamboul. He perished by mistake, 
1 believe — at Gallipoli.” 

*‘Yes; my father said that Herr Wilner was the only 
man hurt. He went out all alone into the mob and began 
to cut them with his riding whip. My father tried to 
save him, but they killed Herr Wilner with stones.” 

“Exactly.” He spread his beautifully jewelled hands 
deprecatingly and seemed greatly grieved. 

“And Herr Wilner’s — property?” he inquired. “Did 
you ever hear what became of it?” 

“Oh, yes,” I said. “My father took charge of it.” 

“Oh! It was supposed at the time that all of Herr 
Wilner’s personal property was destroyed when the school 
and compound burned. Do you happen to know just what 
was saved, mademoiselle?” 

Of course I immediately thought of the bronze demon, 
the box of instruments, and the photographs and papers 
at home with which I used to play as a child. I remem- 
bered my father had said that these things were taken on 
board the Oneida when he, my mother, and I were rescued 
by marines and sailors from our guard vessel which came 
through the Bosporus to the Black Sea, and which es- 
corted us to the Oneida, And I was just going to tell this 
to Izzet Bey when I also remembered what the Princess 
had just told me about giving any information to Ahmed 
Pasha. So I merely opened my eyes very innocently and 
gazed at Colonel Izzet and shook my head as though I 
did not understand his question. 

The next instant the Princess came in to see what I was 
about so long, and she looked at Izzet Bey with a funny 
sort of smile, as though she had surprised him in mis- 
chief and was not angry, only amused. And when Colonel 
Izzet bowed, I saw how red his face had grown — as red 
as his fez. 

The Princess laughed and said in French: “That is the 
difference between professional and amateur — between 
Nizam and Redif — ^between Ahmed Pasha and our esteemed 
but very youthful attache — who has much yet to learn 
about that endless war called Peace!” 

149 


THE DARK STAB 


I didn’t know what she meant, but Izzet Bey turned a 
bright scarlet, bowed again, and returned to the smok- 
ing room. 

And that night, while Suzanne was unhooking me. 
Princess Na'ia came into my bedroom and asked me some 
questions, and I told her about the box of instruments and 
the diary, and the slippery linen papers covered with draw- 
ings and German writing, with which I used to play. 

She said never to mention them to anybody, and that I 
should never permit anybody to examine those military 
papers, because it might be harmful to America. 

How odd and how thrilling ! I am most curious to know 
what all this means. It seems like an exciting story just 
beginning, and I wonder what such a girl as I has to do 
with secrets which concern the Turkish Charge in Paris. 

Don’t you think it promises to be romantic.^ Do you 
suppose it has anything to do with spies and diplomacy 
and kings and thrones, and terrible military secrets.^ One 
hears a great deal about the embassies here being hotbeds 
of political intrigue. And of course France is always 
thinking of Alsace and Lorraine, and there is an ever- 
present danger of war in Europe. 

Mr. Neeland, it thrills me to pretend to myself that 
I am actually living in the plot of a romance full of mys- 
tery and diplomacy and dangerous possibilities. I hope 
something will develop, as something always does in 
novels. 

And alas, my imagination, which always has been vivid, 
needed almost nothing to blaze into flame. It is on fire 
now; I dream of courts and armies, and ambassadors, 
and spies; I construct stories in which I am the heroine 
always — sometimes the interesting and temporary victim 
of wicked plots; sometimes the all-powerful, dauntless, 
and adroit champion of honour and righteousness against 
treachery and evil! 

Did you ever suppose that I still could remain such a 
very little girl? But I fear that I shall never outgrow 
my imagination. And it needs almost nothing to set me 
dreaming out stories or drawing pictures of castles and 
princes and swans and fairies. And even this letter seems 
a part of some breathlessly interesting plot which 1 

150 


LETTERS FROM 'A LITTLE GIRL 


not only creating but actually a living part of and destined 
to act in. 

Do you want a part in it? Shall I include you? Rather 
late to ask your permission, for I have already included 
you. And, somehow, I think the Yellow Devil ought to 
De included, too. 

Please write to me, just once. But don’t speak of the 
papers which father had, and don’t mention Herr Conrad 
Wilner’s box if you write. The Princess says your letter 
might be stolen. 

I am very happy. It is rather cold tonight, and pres- 
ently Suzanne will unhook me and I shall put on such 
a pretty negligee, and then curl up in bed, turn on my 
reading light with the pink shade, and continue to read the 
new novel recommended to me by Princess Naia, called 
“Le Crime de Sylvestre Bonnard.” It is a perfectly 
darling story, and Anatole France, who wrote it, must be a 
darling, too. The Princess knows him and promises that 
he shall dine with us some day. I expect to fall in love 
with him immediately. 

Good night, dear Mr. Neeland. I hope you will write 
to me. 

Your little Gay field friend grown up, 

Ruhannah Carew. 

This letter he finally did answer, not voluminously, 
but with all cordiality. And, in a few days, forgot 
about it and about the girl to whom it was written. 
And there was nothing more from her until early 
summer. 

Then came the last of her letters — an entirely ma- 
ture missive, firm in writing, decisive, concise, self- 
possessed, eloquent with an indefinite something which 
betrayed a calmly ordered mind already being moulded 
by discipline mondame: 

My dear Mr. Neeland: 

I had your very kind and charming letter in reply to 
mine written last January. My neglect to answer it, dur- 

151 


THE DARK STAR 


ing all these months, involves me in explanations which, if 
you like, are perhaps due you. But if you require them 
at all, I had rather surrender them to you personally when 
we meet. 

Possibly that encounter, so happily anticipated on my 
part, may occur sooner than you believe likely. I permit 
myself to hope so. The note which 1 enclose to you from 
the lady whom I love very dearly should explain why I 
venture to entertain a hope that you and I are to see 
each other again in the near future. 

As you were kind enough to inquire about myself and 
what you describe so flatteringly as my **amazing progress 
in artistic and worldly wisdom,” I venture to reply to youi» 
questions in order: 

They seem to be pleased with me at the school. I have 
a life-drawing “on the wall,” a composition sketch, and a 
** concours** study in oil. That I have not burst to atoms 
with pride is a miracle inexplicable. 

I have been told that my progress at the piano is fair. 
But I am very certain I shall do no more with vocal and 
instrumental music than to play and sing acceptably for 
such kind and uncritical friends as do not demand much 
of an amateur. Without any unusual gifts, with a rather 
sensitive ear, and with a very slightly cultivated and 
perfectly childish voice — please do not expect anything 
from me to please you. 

In French I am already becoming fluent. You see, ex- 
cept for certain lessons in it, I have scarcely heard a word 
of English since I came here; the Princess will not use it 
to me nor permit its use by me. And therefore, my ear 
being a musical one and rather accurate, I And — now that 
I look back upon my abysmal ignorance — a very decided 
progress. 

Also let me admit to you — and I have already done so, 
I see — ^that, since I have been here, I have had daily les- 
sons in English with a cultivated English woman; and in 
consequence I have been learning to enlarge a very meagre 
vocabulary, and have begun to appreciate possibilities in 
my own language of which I never dreamed. 

About my personal appearance— as long as you ask me 
— I think perhaps that, were I less thin, I might be rather 

152 


LETTERS FROM A LITTLE GIRL 


pretty. Dress makes such a vast difference in a plain 
girl. Also, intelligent care of one’s person improves 
mediocrity. Of course everybody says such gracious 
things to a girl over here that it would not do to accept 
any pretty compliment very literally. But I really believe 
that you might think me rather nice to look at. 

As for the future, the truth is that I feel much en- 
couraged. I made some drawings in wash and in pen and 
ink — ^just ideas of mine. And Monsieur Bonvard, who is 
editor of The Grey Cat — a very clever weekly — has ac- 
cepted them and has paid me twenty-five francs each for 
them ! I was so astonished that I could not believe it. 
One has been reproduced in last week’s paper. I have 
cut it out and pasted it in my scrapbook. 

I think, take it all in all, that seeing my first illustra- 
tions printed has given me greater joy than I shall ever 
again experience on earth. 

My daily intercourse with the Princess Mistchenka con- 
tinues to comfort me, inspire me, and fill me with de- 
termination so to educate myself that when the time comes 
I shall be ready and able to support myself with pen and 
pencil. 

And now I must bring my letter to its end. The pros- 
pect of seeing you very soon is agreeable beyond words. 
You have been very kind to me. I do not forgot it. 

Yours very sincerely, 

Ruhannah Caj»^w. 

The enclosure was a note from the Princess Mist- 
chenka : 

Dear Jim: 

If in the past it has been my good fortune to add any- 
thing to yours, may I now invoke in you the memory of 
our very frank and delightful friendship.^ 

When you first returned to America from Paris I found 
it possible to do for you a few favours in the way of mak- 
ing you known to certain editors. It was, I assure you, 
merely because I liked you and believed in your work, 
not because I ever expected to ask from you any favour in 
return. 


153 


THE DARK STAR 


Now, Fate has thrown an odd combination from her 
dice-box; and Destiny has veiled herself so impenetrably 
that nobody can read that awful visage to guess what 
thoughts possess her. 

You, in America, have heard of the murder of the 
Austrian Archduke, of course. But — have you, in America, 
any idea what the consequences of that murder may lead 
to? 

Enough of that. Now for the favour I ask. 

Will you go at once to Brookhollow, go to RuhannahV 
house, open it, take from it a chest made of olive wood 
and bound with some metal which looks like silver, lock 
the box, take it to New York, place it in a safe deposit 
vault until you can sail for Paris on the first steamer that 
leaves New York? 

Will you do this — get the box I have described and 
bring it to me yourself on the first steamer that sails? 

And, Jim, keep your eye on the box. Don’t trust any-" 
body near it. Rue says that, as she recollects, the box is 
about the size and shape of a suitcase and that it has a 
canvas and leather cover with a handle which buttons 
over it. 

Therefore, you can carry it yourself exactly as though 
it were your suitcase, keep it with you in the train and 
on shipboard. 

Will you do this, Jim? It is much to ask of you. I 
break in upon your work and cause you great inconveni- 
ence and trouble and expense. But — ^will you do it for 
me? 

Much depends upon yanr doing this. I think that pos- 
sibly the welfare of your own country might depend on 
your doing this for me. 

If you find yourself embarrassed financially, cable me 
just one word, *'Black,’’ and I shall arrange matters 
through a New York bank. 

If you feel that you do not care to do me this favour, 
cable the single word, “White.” 

If you have sufficient funds, and are willing to bring the 
box to me yourself, cable the word, “Blue.” 

In case that you undertake this business for me, be 
careful of the contents of the box. Let nobody see it 

154 


LETTERS FROM A LITTLE GIRL 


open. Be certain that the contents are absolutely secure. 
I dare not tell you how vitally important to civilisation 
these papers already are — how much they may mean to 
the world; what powers of evil they might encourage if 
in any way they fall into other hands than the right ones. 

Jim, I have seldom taken a very serious tone with you 
since we have known each other. I am very serious now. 
And if our friendship means anything to you, prove it! 

Yours, 

Naia. 

As he sat there in his studio, perplexed, amazed, an- 
noyed, yet curious, trying to think out what he ought 
to do — ^what, in fact, must be done somehow or other — 
there came a ring at his door bell. A messenger with 
a cable despatch stood there ; Neeland signed, tore open 
the envelope, and read: 

Please go at once to Brookhollow and secure an olive- 
wood box bound with silver, containing military maps, 
plans, photographs, and papers written in German, prop- 
erty of Ruhannah Carew. Lose no time, I implore you, as 
an attempt to rob the house and steal the papers is likely. 
Beware of anybody resembling a German. Have written, 
hut beg you not to wait for letter. 

Naia. 

Twice he reread the cablegram. , Then, with a half- 
bewildered, half-disgusteid glance around at his studio, 
his belongings, the unfinished work on his easel, he 
went to the telephone. 

It being July he had little difficulty in reserving a 
good stateroom on the Cunarder Volhynia, sailing the 
following day. Then, summoning the janitor, he 
packed a steamer trunk and gave order to have it taken 
aboard that evening. 

On his way downtown to his bank he stopped at a 
155 


THE DARK STAR 


telegraph and cable office and sent a cable message to 
the Princess Mistchenka. The text consisted of only 
one word: “Blue.” 

He departed for Gayfield on the five o’clock after- 
noon train, carrying with him a suitcase and an auto- 
matic pistol in his breast pocket. 


CHAPTER XIV 


A JOURNEY BEGINS 

It was a five-hour trip. He dined aboard the train 
with little desire for food, the July evening being op- 
pressive, and a thunder storm brewing over the Hudson. 
It burst in the vicinity of Fishkill with a lively display 
of lightning, deluging the Catskills with rain. And 
when he changed to a train on the Mohawk division the 
cooler air was agreeably noticeable. 

He changed trains again at Orangeville, and here 
the night breeze was delightful and the scent of rain- 
soaked meadows came through the open car window. 

It was nearly ten o’clock and already, ahead, he 
caught sight of the lights of Neeland’s Mills. Always 
the homecoming was a keen delight to him ; and now, as 
he stepped off the train, the old familiar odours were 
in his nostrils — the unique composite perfume of the 
native place which never can be duplicated elsewhere. 

All the sweet and aromatic and homely smells of 
earth and land and water came to him with his first 
deep-drawn breath. The rank growth of wild flowers 
and weeds were part of it — the flat atmosphere of the 
mill pond, always redolent of water weed and lily pads, 
tinctured it; distant fields of buckwheat added heavier 
perfume. 

Neither in the quaint brick feed mill nor in the lum- 
ber mill were there any lights, but in his own home, 
almost buried among tall trees and vines, the light 
streamed from the sitting-room windows. 

157 


THE DARK STAR 


From the dark yard two or three dogs barked at 
him, then barked again in a different key, voicing an 
excited welcome; and he opened the picket gate and 
went up the path surrounded by demonstrative setters 
and pointers, leaping and wagging about him and mak- 
ing a vast amount of noise on the vine-covered veran- 
dah as he opened the door, let himself into the house, 
and shut them out. 

“Hello, dad!” he said, crossing swiftly to where his 
father sat by the reading lamp. 

Their powerful grip lingered. Old Dick Neeland, 
ruddy, white-haired, straight as a pine, stood up in his 
old slippers and quilted smoking coat, his brier pipe 
poised in his left hand. 

“Splendid, Jim. I’ve been thinking about you this 
evening.” He might have added that there were few 
moments when his son was not in his thoughts. 

“Are you all right, dad.^” 

“Absolutely. You are, too, I see.” 

They seated themselves. 

“Hungry, Jim.?” 

“No; I dined aboard.” 

“You didn’t telegraph me.” 

“No; I came at short notice.” 

“Can’t you stay?” 

“Dad, I have a drawing-room reserved for the mid- 
night tonight, and I am sailing on the Volhynia tomor- 
row at nine in the morning I” 

“God bless me I Why, Jim?” 

“Dad, I’ll tell you all I know about it.” 

His father sat with brier pipe suspended and keen 
blue eyes fixed on his son, while the son told everything 
he knew about the reason for his flying trip to Paris. 

“You see how it is, don’t you, dad?” he ended. “The 

158 


4 JOURNEY BEGINS 


Princess has been a good and loyal friend to me. She 
has used her influence; I have met, through her, the 
people I ought to know, and they have given me work 
to do. Pm in her debt; I’m under real obligation to 
her. And I’ve got to go, that’s all.” 

Old Dick Neeland’s clear eyes of a sportsman con- 
tinued to study his son’s face. 

“Yes, you’ve got to go,” he said. He smoked for a 
few moments, then : “What the devil does it mean, any- 
way Have you any notion, Jim.^” 

“No, I haven’t. There seems to be some military 
papers in this box that is mentioned. Evidently they 
are of value to somebody. Evidently other people have 
got wind of that fact and desire to obtain them for 
themselves. It almost seems as though something is 
brewing over there — trouble of some sort between Ger- 
many and some other nation. But I haven’t heard of 
anything.” 

His father continued to smoke for a while, then: 

“There is something brewing over there, Jim.” 

“I hadn’t heard,” repeated the young man. 

“I haven’t either, directly. But in my business 
some unusual orders have come through — from abroad. 
Both France and Germany have been making inquiries 
through agents in regard to shipments of grain and 
feed and lumber. I’ve heard of several very heavy rush 
orders.” 

“What on earth could cause war.?”’ 

“I can’t see, Jim. Of course Austria’s attitude 
toward Servia is very sullen. But outside of that I 
can see no trouble threatening. 

“And yet, the Gayfield woollen mill has just received 
an enormous order for socks and underwear from the 
French Government. They’re running all night now. 
159 


THE DARK STAR 


And another thing struck me: there has been a man 
in this section buying horses for the British Govern- 
ment. Of course it’s done now and then, but, taking 
this incident with the others which have come to my 
personal knowledge, it would seem as though something 
were brewing over in Europe.” 

Jim’s perplexed eyes rested on his father; he shook 
his youthful head slightly: 

“I can’t see why,” he said. “But if it’s to be France 
and Germany again, why my sympathy is entirely for 
France.” 

“Naturally,” nodded his father. 

Their Irish ancestors had fought for Bonaparte, and 
for the Bourbons before him. And, cursed with cou- 
sins, like all Irish, they were aware of plenty of Nee- 
lands in France who spoke no English. 

Jim rose, glanced at his watch: 

“Dad, I’ll just be running over to Brookhollow to 
get that box. I haven’t such a lot of time, if I’m to 
catch the midnight train at Orangeville.” 

“I should say you hadn’t,” said his father. 

He was disappointed, but he smiled as he exchanged 
a handclasp with his only son. 

“You’re coming right back from Paris.?” 

“Next steamer. I’ve a lot of work on hand, thank 
goodness! But that only puts me under heavier obli- 
gations to the Princess Mistchenka.” 

“Yes, I suppose so. Anything but ingratitude, Jim. 
It’s the vilest vice of ’em all. They say it’s in the Irish 
blood — ingratitude. They must never prove it by a 
Neeland. Well, my boy — I’m not lonesome, you un- 
derstand; busy men have no time to bo lonesome — but 
run up, will you, when you get back.?” 

“You bet I will.” 


160 


A JOURNEY BEGINS 


‘‘Fll show you a brace of promising pups. They 
stand rabbits, still, but they won’t when the season is 
over.” 

“Blue Bird’s pups.^” 

“Yes. They take after her.” 

“Fine ! I’ll be back for the shooting, anyway. Many 
broods this season.^” 

“A fair number. It was not too wet.” 

For a moment they lingered, smiling at each other, 
then Jim gave his father’s hand a quick shake, picked 
up his suitcase, turned. 

“I’ll take the runabout, dad. Someone from the 
Orangeville garage will bring it over in the morning.” 

He went out, pushed his way among the leaping dogs 
to the garage, threw open the doors, and turned on 
the electric light. 

A slim and trim Snapper runabout stood glistening 
beside a larger car and two automobile trucks. He ex- 
changed his straw hat for a cap ; placed hat and suit- 
case in the boot ; picked up a flash light from the work- 
table, and put it into his pocket, cranked the Snapper, 
jumped in, ran it to the service entrance, where his 
father stood ready to check the dogs and close the 
gates after him. 

“Good-bye, dad!” he called out gaily. 

“Good-bye, my son.” 

The next instant he was speeding through the starry 
darkness, following the dazzling path blazed out for 
him by his headlights. 


CHAPTER XV 


THE LOCKED HOUSE 

From the road, just before he descended to cross the 
bridge into Brookhollow, he caught a gleam of light 
straight ahead. For a moment it did not occur to him 
that there was anything strange in his seeing a light 
in the old Carew house. Then, suddenly, he realised 
that a light ought not to be burning behind the lowered 
shades of a house which was supposed to be empty and 
locked. 

His instant impulse was to put on his brakes then 
and there, but the next moment he realised that his car 
must already have been heard and seen by whoever had 
lighted that shaded lamp. The car was already on 
the old stone bridge; the Carew house stood directly 
behind the crossroads ahead ; and he swung to the right 
into the creek road and sped along it until he judged 
that neither his lights nor the sound of his motor could 
be distinguished by the unknown occupant of the Carew 
house. 

Then he ran his car out among the tall weeds close 
to the line of scrub willows edging the creek; extin- 
guished his lights, including the tail-lamp; left his en- 
gine running ; stood listening a moment to the whisper- 
ing whirr of his motor ; then, taking the flash light from 
his pocket, he climbed over the roadside wall and ran 
back across the pasture toward the house. 

As he approached the old house from the rear, no 
crack of light was visible, and he began to think he 
162 


THE LOCKED HOUSE 


might have been mistaken — that perhaps the dancing 
glare of his own acetylenes on the windows had made 
it seem as though they were illuminated from within. 

Cautiously he prowled along the rear under the 
kitchen windows, turned the corner, and went to the 
front porch. 

He had made no mistake; a glimmer was visible be- 
tween the edge of the lowered shade and the window 
casing. 

Was it some impudent tramp who had preempted this 
lonely house for a night’s lodging? Was it, possibly, 
a neighbour who had taken charge in return for a gar- 
den to cultivate and a place to sleep in? Yet, how could 
it be the latter when he himself had the keys to the 
house? Moreover, such an arrangement could scarcely 
have been made by Rue Carew without his being told 
of it. 

Then he remembered what the Princess Mistchenka 
had said in her cable message, that somebody might 
break into the house and steal the olive-wood box unless 
he hastened to Brookhollow and secured it immediately. 

Was this what was being done now? Had somebody 
broken in for that purpose? And who might it be? 

A slight chill, not entirely agreeable, passed over 
Neeland. A rather warm sensation of irritation suc- 
ceeded it ; he mounted the steps, crossed the verandah, 
went to the door and tried the knob very cautiously. 
The door was locked; whoever might be inside either 
possessed a key that fitted or else must have entered by 
forcing a window. 

But Neeland had neither time nor inclination to prowl 
around and investigate ; he had a duty to fulfil, a train 
to catch, and a steamer to connect with the next morn- 
ing. Besides, he was getting madder every second. 

163 


THE DARK STAR 


So he fitted his key to the door, careless of what 
noise he made, unlocked and pushed it open, and started 
to cross the threshold. 

Instantly the light in the adjoining room grew dim. 
At the same moment his quick ear caught a sound as 
though somebody had blown out the turned-down flame ; 
and he found himself facing total darkness. 

‘‘Who the devil’s in there!” he called, flashing his 
electric pocket lamp. “Come out, whoever you are. 
You’ve no business in this house, and you know it!” 
And he entered the silent room. 

His flash light revealed nothing except dining-room 
furniture in disorder, the doors of a cupboard standing 
open — one door still gently swinging on its hinges. 

The invisible hand that had moved it could not be 
far away. Neeland, throwing his light right and left, 
caught a glimpse of another door closing stealthily, 
ran forward and jerked it open. His lamp illuminated 
an empty passageway; he hurried through it to the 
door that closed the farther end, tore it open, and 
deluged the sitting-room with his blinding light. 

Full in the glare, her face as white as the light itself, 
stood a woman. And just in time his eyes caught the 
glitter of a weapon in her stiffly extended hand ; and he 
snapped off his light and ducked as the level pistol- 
flame darted through the darkness. 

The next second he had her in his grasp; held her 
writhing and twisting ; and, through the confused tram- 
ple and heavy breathing, he noticed a curious crackling 
noise as though the clothing she wore were made of 
paper. 

The struggle in pitch darkness was violent but brief ; 
she managed to fire again as he caught her right arm 
and felt along it until he touched the desperately 
164j 


THE LOCKED HOUSE 


clenched pistol. Then, still clutching her closed fingers, 
he pulled the flash light from his side pocket and threw 
its full radiance straight into her face. 

“Let go your pistol,” he breathed. 

She strove doggedly to retain it, but her slender fin- 
gers slowly relaxed under his merciless grip ; the pistol 
fell; and he kicked the pearl-handled, nickel-plated 
weapon across the dusty board floor. 

They both were panting; her right arm, rigid, still 
remained in his powerful clutch. He released it pres- 
ently, stepped back, and played the light over her from 
head to foot. 

She was deathly white. Under her smart straw hat, 
which had been pushed awry, the contrast between her 
black hair and eyes and her chalky skin was startling. 

“What are you doing in this house?” he demanded, 
still breathing heavily from exertion and excitement. 

She made an elfort: 

“Is it your house?” she gasped. 

“It isn’t yours, is it?” he retorted* 

She made no answer. 

“Why did you shoot at me.^” 

She lifted her black eyes and stared at him. Her 
breast rose and fell with her rapid breathing, and she 
placed both hands over it as though to quiet it. 

“Come,” he said, “I’m in a hurry. I want an explana- 
tion from you ” 

The words died on his lips as she whipped a knife 
out of her bosom and flew at him. Through the confu- 
sion of flash light and darkness they reeled, locked to- 
gether, but he caught her arm again, jerking it so vio- 
lently into the air that he lifted her off her feet. 

“That’s about all for tonight,” he panted, twisting 
the knife out of her helpless hand and flinging it be- 
165 


THE BARK STAR 


hind him. Without further ceremony, he pulled out his 
handkerchief, caught her firmly, reached for her other 
arm, jerked it behind her back, and tied both wrists. 
Then he dragged a chair up and pushed her on it. 

Her hat had fallen off, and her hair sagged to her 
neck. The frail stuff of which her waist was made had 
been badly tom, too, and hung in rags from her right 
shoulder. 

‘‘Who are you?” h^ demanded. 

As she made no reply, he went over and picked up the 
knife and the pistol. The knife was a silver-mounted 
Kurdish dagger ; the engraved and inlaid blade appeared 
to be dull and rusty. He examined it for a few mo- 
ments, glanced inquiringly at her where she sat, pale 
and mute on the chair, with both wrists tied behind 
her. 

“You seem to be a connoisseur of antiques,” he said. 
“Your dagger is certainly a collector’s gem, and your 
revolver is equally out of date. I recommend an auto- 
matic the next time you contemplate doing murder.” 

Walking up to her he looked cunously into her dark 
eyes, but he could detect no expression in them. 

“Why did you come here?” he demanded. 

No answer. 

“Did you come to get an olive-wood box bound with 
silver 

A slight colour tinted the ashy pallor under her 
eyes. 

He turned abruptly and swept the furniture with his 
searchlight, and saw on a table her coat, gloves, wrist 
bag, and furled umbrella; and beside them what ap- 
peared to be her suitcase, open. It had a canvas and 
leather cover : he walked over to the table, turned back 
the cover of the suitcase and revealed a polished box 
166 


THE LOCKED HOUSE 


of olive wood, heavily banded by some metal resembling 
silver. 

Inside the box were books, photographs, a bronze 
Chinese figure, which he recognised as the Yellow Devil, 
a pair of revolvers, a dagger very much like the one 
he had wrested from her. But there were no military 
plane there. 

He turned to his prisoner: 

“Is everything here.?” he asked sharply. 

“Yes.” 

He picked up her wrist bag and opened it, but dis- 
covered only some money, a handkerchief, a spool of 
thread and packet of needles. 

There was a glass lamp on the table. He managed 
to light it finally; turned off his flash light, and ex- 
amined the contents of the box again thoroughly. Then 
he came back to where she was seated. 

“Get up,” he said. 

She looked at him sullenly without moving. 

“I’m in a hurry,” he repeated; “get up. I’m going 
to search you.” 

At that she bounded to her feet. 

“What!” she exclaimed furiously. 

But he caught hold of her, held her, untied the hand- 
kerchief, freeing her wrists. 

“Now, pull out those papers you have concealed 
under your clothing,” he said impatiently. And, as 
she made no motion to comply: “If you don’t. I’ll do 
it for you!” 

“You dare lay your hand on me!” she flamed. 

“You treacherous little cat, do you think I’ll hesi- 
tate.?” he retorted. “Do you imagine I retain any re- 
spect for you or your person.? Give me those papers !” 

“I have no papers !” 


167 


THE DARK STAR 


“You are lying. Listen to me once for all; I’ve a 
train to catch and a steamer to catch, and I’m going 
to do both. And if you don’t instantly hand out those 
papers you’ve concealed I’ll have no more compunction 
in taking them by force than I’d have in stripping an 
ear of corn! Make up your mind and make it up 
quick !” 

“You mean you’d strip — Tne!'^ she stammered, scar- 
let to her hair. 

“That’s what I mean, you lying little thief. That’s 
just what I mean. Kick and squall as you like, I’ll take 
those papers with me if I have to take your clothing 
too !” 

Breathless, infuriated, she looked desperately around 
her, caught sight of the Kurdish dagger, leaped at it; 
and for the third time found herself struggling in his 
arms. 

“Don’t !” she gasped. “Let me go! I — I’ll give you 
what you want ” 

“Do you mean it.^” 

“Yes.” 

He released the dishevelled girl, who shrank away 
from him. But the devil himself glowed in her black 
eyes. 

“Go out of the room,” she said, “if I’m to get the 
papers for you!” 

“I can’t trust you,” he answered. “I’ll turn my 
back.” And he walked over to the olive-wood box, 
where the weapons lay. 

Standing there he heard, presently, the rustle of 
crumpling papers, heard a half-smothered sob, 
waited, listening, alert for further treachery on her 
part. 

“Hurry!” he said. 


168 


THE LOCKED HOUSE 


A board creaked. 

“Don’t move again!” he cried. The floor boards 
creaked once more; and he turned like a flash to find 
her in her stocking feet, already halfway to where he 
stood. In either hand she held out a bundle of papers ; 
and, as they faced each other, she took another step 
toward him. 

“Stand where you are,” he warned her. “Throw 
those papers on the floor!” 

“Do you hear !” 

Looking him straight in the eyes she opened both 
hands ; the papers fell at her feet, and with them 
dropped the two dagger-like steel pins which had held 
her hat. 

“Now, go and put on your shoes,” he said contemp- 
tuously, picking up the papers and running over them. 
When he had counted them, he came back to where 
she was standing. 

“Where are the others 

“What others 

“The remainder of the papers ! You little devil, 
they’re wrapped around your body ! Go into that pan- 
try! Go quick! Undress and throw out every rag 
jou wear!” 

She drew a deep, quivering breath, turned, entered 
the pantry and closed the door. Presently the door 
opened a little and her clothing dropped outside in a 
heap. 

There were papers in her stockings, papers stitched 
to her stays, basted inside her skirts. A roll of draw- 
ings traced on linen lay on the floor, still retaining 
the warmth of her body around which they Imd been 
wrapped- 


169 


THE BARK STAR 


He pulled the faded embroidered cover from the old 
piano and knocked at the pantry door. 

“Put that on,” he said, “and come out.” 

She emerged, swathed from ankle to chin, her flushed 
face shadowed by her fallen mass of dark hair. He 
turned his flash light on the cupboard, but discovered 
nothing more. Then he picked up her hat, clothes, and 
shoes, laid them on the pantry shelf, and curtly bade 
her go back and dress. 

“May I have the lamp and that looking glass.?” 

“If you like,” he said, preoccupied with the papers. 

While she was dressing, he repacked the olive-wood 
box. She emerged presently, carrying the lamp, and 
he took it from her hurriedly, not knowing whether she 
might elect to throw it at his head. 

While she was putting on her jacket he stood watch' 
ing her with perplexed and sombre gaze, 

“I think,” he remarked, “that I’ll take you with me 
and drop you at the Orangeville jail on my way to 
town. Be kind enough to start toward the door.” 

As she evinced no inclination to stir he passed one 
arm around her and lifted her along a few feet ; and she 
turned on him, struggling, her face convulsed with 
fury. 

“Keep your insolent hands off me,” she said. “Do 
you hear.?” 

“Oh, yes, I hear.” He nodded again toward the door. 
“Come,” he repeated impatiently; “move on!” 

She hesitated; he picked up the olive-wood box, ex- 
tinguished the lamp, opened his flash, and motioned 
with his head, significantly. She walked ahead of him, 
face lowered. 

Outside he closed and locked the door of the house. 

“This way,” he said coldly. “If you refuse, Pll pick 

170 


THE LOCKED HOUSE 


you up and carry you under my arm. I think by this 
time you realise I can do it, too.” 

Halfway across the dark pasture she stopped short 
in her tracks. 

‘‘Have I got to carry you.^” he demanded sharply. 

“Don’t have me locked up.” 

“Why not?” 

“I’m not a — a thief.” 

“Oh! Excuse me. What 'are you. 

“You know. Don’t humiliate me.” 

“Answer my question 1 What are you if you’re nbt a 
lady crook?” 

“I’m employed — as you are ! Play the game fairly.” 
She halted in the dark pasture, but he motioned her to 
go forward. 

“If you don’t keep on walking,” he said, “I’ll pick 
you up as I would a pet cat and carry you. Now, then, 
once more, who are you working for? By whom are 
you employed, if you’re not a plain thief 

“The — Turkish Embassy.” 

“What!” 

“You knew it,” she said in a low voice, walking 
through the darkness beside him. 

“What is your name.^”’ he insisted. 

“Dumont.” 

“What else?” 

“Use Dumont.” 

“That’s French.” 

“It’s Alsatian German.” 

“All right. Now, why did you break into that 
house.?” 

“To take what you took.” 

“To steal these papers for the Turkish Embassy?” 

“To take them.” 


171 


THE DARK STAR 


*‘For the Turkish Ambassador !” he repeated incredu- 
lously. 

“No ; for his military attache.” 

“What are you, a spy?” 

“You knew it well enough. You are one, also. But 
you have treated me as though I were a thief. You’ll 
be killed for it, I hope.” 

“You think I’m a spy?” he asked, astonished. 

“What else are you.?” 

“A spy ?” he repeated. “Is that what yow are ? And 
you suppose me to be one, too? That’s funny. That’s 

extremely He checked himself, looked around at 

her. “What are you about?” he demanded. “What’s 
that in your hand.?” 

“A cigarette.” 

They had arrived at the road. He got over the wall 
with the box; she vaulted it lightly. 

In the darkness he caught the low, steady throbbing 
of his engine, and presently distinguished the car stand- 
ing where he had left it. 

“Get in,” he said briefly. 

“I am not a thief ! Are you going to lay that charge 
against me.?” 

“I don’t know. Is it worse than charging you with 
three separate attempts to murder me?” 

“Are you going to take me to jail?” 

“I’ll see. You’ll go as far as Orangeville with me, 
anyhow.” 

“I don’t care to go.” 

“I don’t care whether you want to go or not. Get 
into the car!” 

She climbed to the seat beside the wheel; he tossed 
in the olive-wood box, turned on his lamps, and took 
the wheel. 


173 


THE LOCKED HOUSE 


‘‘May I have a match for my cigarette?” she asked 
meekly. 

He found one, scratched it; she placed a very thick 
and long cigarette between her lips and he lighted it 
for her. 

Just as he threw in the clutch and the car started, 
the girl blew a shower of sparks from the end of her 
cigarette, rose in her seat, and flung the lighted ciga- 
rette high into the air. Instantly it burst into a flare 
of crimson fire, hanging aloft as though it were a fire 
balloon, and lighting up road and creek and bushes and 
fields with a brilliant strontium glare. 

Then, far in the night, he heard a motor horn screech 
three times. 

“You young devil!” he said, increasing the speed. 
“I ought to have remembered that every snake has its 
mate. ... If you ofiTer to touch me — if you move — if 
you as much as lift a finger, I’ll throw you into the 
creek !” 

The car was flying now, reeling over the dirt road 
like a drunken thing. He hung grimly to the wheel, his 
strained gaze fixed on the shaft of light ahead, through 
which the road streamed like a torrent. 

A great wind roared in his ears ; his cap was gone. 
The car hurled itself forward through an endless tunnel 
of darkness lined with silver. Presently he began to 
slow down; the furious wind died away; the streaking 
darkness sped by less swiftly. 

“Have you gone mad.^” she cried in his ear. “You’ll 
kill us both!” 

“Wait,” he shouted back; “I’ll show you and your 
friends behind us what speed really is.” 

The car was still slowing dov7n as they passed over a 
wooden bridge where a narrow road, partly washed out, 
173 


THE DARK STAB 


turned to the left and ran along a hillside. Into this 
he steered. 

‘‘Who is it chasing us?’’ he asked curiously, still in- 
credulous that any embassy whatever was involved in 
; this amazing affair. 

“Friends.” 

“More Turks?” 

She did not reply. 

He sat still, listening for a few moments, then hastily 
started his car down the hill. 

“Now,” he said, “I’ll show you what this car of mine 
really can do! Are you afraid 

She said between her teeth: 

“I’d be a fool if I were not. All I pray for is that 
you’ll kill yourself, too.” 

“We’ll chance it together, my murderous little 
friend.” 

The wind began to roar again as they rushed down- 
ward over a hill that seemed endless. She clung to her 
seat and he hung to his wheel like grim death ; and, for 
one terrible instant, she almost lost consciousness. 

Then the terrific pace slackened; the car, running 
swiftly, was now speeding over a macadam road; and 
Neeland laughed and cried in her ear: 

“Better light another of your hell’s own cigarettes if 
you want your friends to follow us !” 

Slowing, he drove with one hand on the wheel. 

“Look up there!” he said, pointing high at a dark 
hillside. “See their lights? They’re on the worst road 
in the Gayfield hills. We cut off three miles this way.” 

Still driving with one hand, he looked at his watch, 
laughed contentedly, and turned to her with the sudden 
and almost friendly toleration born of success and of 
danger shared in common. 

174 


THE LOCKED HOUSE 


‘"“That was rather a reckless bit of driving,” he ad- 
mitted. “Were you frightened.^” 

“Ask yourself how you’d feel with a fool at the 
wheel.” 

“We’re all fools at times,” he retorted, laughing. 
“You were when you shot at me. Suppose I’d been 
seized with panic. I might have turned loose on you, 
too.” 

For a while she remained silent, then she looked at 
him curiously: 

“Were you armed 

“I carry an automatic pistol in my portfolio pocket.” 

She shrugged. 

“You were a fool to come into that house without 
carrying it in your hand.” 

“Where would you be now if I had done that?” 

“Dead, I suppose,” she said carelessly. . . . “What 
are you going to do with me.?” 

He was in excellent humour with himself ; exhilaration 
and excitement still possessed him, keyed him up. 

“Fancy,” he said, “a foreign embassy being mixed 
up in a plain case of grand larceny ! — robbing with at- 
tempt to murder! My dear but bloodthirsty young 
lady, I can hardly comprehend it.” 

She remained silent, looking straight in front of her. 

“You know,” he said, “I’m rather glad you’re not a 
common thief. You’ve lots of pluck — plenty. You’re 
as clever as a cobra. It isn’t every poisonous snake 
that is clever,” he added, laughing. 

“What do you intend to do with me.?” she repeated 
coolly. 

“I don’t know. You are certainly an interesting 
companion. Maybe I’ll take you to New York with me. 
You see I’m beginning to like you.” 

175 


THE DARK STAR 


She was silent. 

He said: 

“I never before met a real spy. I scarcely believed 
they existed in time of peace, except in novels. Really, 
I never imagined there were any spies working for em- 
bassies, except in Europe. You are, to me, such a rare 
specimen,” he added gaily, ‘‘that I rather dread part- 
ing with you. Won’t you come to Paris with me.?” 

“Does what you say amuse you.?” 

“What ^ou say does. Yes, I think I’ll take you ta 
New York, anyway. And as we journey toward that 
great metropolis together you shall tell me all about 
your delightful profession. You shall be a Schehera- 
zade to me! Is it a bargain.?” 

She said in a pleasant, even voice: 

“I might as well tell you now that what you’ve been 
stupid enough to do tonight is going to cost you your 
life.” 

“What!” he exclaimed laughingly. “More murder? 
Oh, Scheherazade! Shame on your naughty, naughty 
behaviour I” 

“Do you expect to reach Paris with those papers?” 

“I do, fair houri ! I do, Rose of Stamboul !” 

“You never will.” 

“No?” 

“No.” She sat staring ahead of her for a few mo- 
ments, then turned on him with restrained impatience: 

“Listen to me, now ! I don’t know who you are. If 
you’re employed by any government you are a no- 
vice ” 

“Or an artist!” 

“Or a consummate artist,” she admitted, looking at 
him uncertainly. 

“I am an artist,” he said. 

176 


THE LOCKED HOUSE 


“You have an excellent opinion of yourself.” 

“No. I’m telling you the truth. My name is Nee- 
land — James Neeland. I draw little pictures for a liv- 
ing — nice little pictures for newspapers and maga- 
zines.” 

His frankness evidently perplexed her. 

“If that is so,” she said, “what interests you in the 
papers you took from me.^” 

“Nothing at all, my dear young lady! Pm not in- 
terested in them. But friends of mine are.” 

“Who?” 

He merely laughed at her. 

**Are you an agent for any government?” 

“Not that I know of.” 

She said very quietly: 

“You make a terrible mistake to involve yourself in 
this affair. If you are not paid to do it — if you are 
not interested from patriotic motives — you had better 
keep aloof.” 

“But it’s too late. I am mixed up in it — whatever 
it may mean. Why not tell me, Scheherazade?” 

His humorous badinage seemed only to make her 
more serious. 

“Mr. Neeland,” she said quietly, “if you really are 
what you say you are, it is a dangerous and silly thing 
that you have done tonight.” 

“Don’t say that! Don’t consider it so tragically. 
I’m enjoying it all immensely.” 

“Do you consider it a comedy when a woman tries to 
kill you.?” 

“Maybe you are fond of murder, gentle lady.” 

“Your sense of humour seems a trifle perverted. I 
am more serious than I ever was in my life. And I tell 
you very solemnly that you’ll be killed if you try to 
177 


THE DARK STAR 


take those papers to Paris. Listen!” — she laid one 
hand lightly on his arm — ‘‘Why should you involve 
yourself — ^you, an American? This matter is no con- 
cern of yours ” 

“What matter?” 

“The matter concerning those papers. I tell you it 
does not concern you ; it is none of your business. Let 
me be frank with you : the papers are of importance to 
a foreign government — to the German Government. 
And in no way do they threaten your people or your 
country’s welfare. Why, then, do you interfere ? Why 
do you use violence toward an agent of a foreign and 
friendly government ?” 

“Why does a foreign and friendly government em- 
ploy spies in a friendly country?” 

“All governments do.” 

“Is that so?” 

“It is. America swarms with British and French 
agents.” 

“How do you know?” 

“It’s my business to know, Mr. Neeland.” 

“Then that is your profession! You really are a 

spy?” 

“Yes.” 

“And you pursue this ennobling profession with an 
enthusiasm which does not stop short of murder!” 

“I had no choice.” 

“Hadn’t you? Your business seems to be rather a 
deadly one, doesn’t it, Scheherazade?” 

“Yes, it might become so. . . . Mr. Neeland, I have 
no personal feeling of anger for you. You offered me 
violence ; you behaved brutally, indecently. But I want 
you to understand that no petty personal feeling in- 
cites me. The wrong you have done me is nothing; the 
178 


THE LOCKED HOUSE 


injury you threaten to do my country is very grave. I 
ask you to believe that I speak the truth. It is in the 
service of my country that I have acted. Nothing 
matters to me except my country’s welfare. Individ- 
uals are nothing ; the Fatherland everything. . . . Will 
you give me back my papers?” 

“No. I shall return them to their owner.” 

“Is that final?” 

“It is.” 

“I am sorry,” she said. 

A moment later the lights of Orangeville came into 
distant view across the dark and rolling country. 


CHAPTER XVI 


SCHEHERAZADE 

At the Orangeville garage Neeland stopped his car^ 
put on his straw hat, got out carrying suitcase and box, 
entered the office, and turned over the care of the ma- 
chine to an employee with orders to drive it back to 
Neeland’s Mills th^ next morning. 

Then he leisurely returned to his prisoner who had 
given him her name as Use Dumont and who was stand- 
ing on the sidewalk beside the car. 

“Well, Scheherazade,” h^ said, smiling, “teller of 
marvellous tales, I don’t quite believe your stories, but 
they were extremely entertaining. So I won’t bow- 
string you or cut off your unusually attractive head! 
No! On the contrary, I thank you for your wonder- 
tales, and for nbt murdering m^^^ And, furthermore, 
I bestow upon you your liberty. Have y^ou sufficient 
cash to take you where you desire to waft your- 
self.?” 

All the time her dark, unsmiling eyes remained fixed 
on him, calmly unresponsive to his badinage. 

“I’m sorry I had to be rough with ^ ; Schehera- 
zade,” he continued, “but when a young lady sews her 
clothes full of papers V/hich don’t belong to her, what, 
I ask you, is a modest young man to dor 

She said nothing. 

“It becomes necessary for that modest young man 
to can his modesty — and the young lady’s. Is there 
anything else he could do?” he repeated gaily. 

180 


SCHEHERAZADE 


“He had better return those papers,” she replied in 
a low voice. 

“I’m sorry, Scheherazade, but it isn’t done in ultra- 
crooked circles. Are you sure you have enough money 
to go where destiny and booty call you?” 

“I have what I require,” she answered dryly. 

“Then good-bye. Pearl of the Harem ! Without ran- 
cour, I offer you the hand that reluctantly chastened 
you.” 

They remained facing each other in silence for a mo- 
ment; his expression was mischievously amused; hers 
inscrutable. Then, as he patientlj^f and good-humour- 
edly continued to offer her his hand, very slowly she 
laid her own in it, still looking him directly in the eyes* 

“I’m sorry,” she said in a low voice. 

“For what? For not shooting me.?” 

“I’m sorry for you, Mr. Neeland. . . . You’re only 
a boy, after all. You know nothing. And you refuse 
to learn. . . . I’m sorry. . . . Good-bye.” 

“Could I take you anywhere? To the Hotel Or- 
ange? I’ve time. The station is across the street.” 

“No,” she said. 

She walked leisurely along the poorly lighted street 
and turned the first corner as Ciough at hazard. The 
next moment her trim and graceful figure had disap- 
peared. 

With h* leart still gay from the night’s excitement, 
56?id the drop of Irish blood in him jively as champagne, 
he crossed the square briskly, entered the stuffy sta- 
tion, bough' ticket, and went out to the wooden plat- 
form beside the rails. 

Placing box and suitcase side by side, he seated hira- 
<f«lf upon them and lighted a cigarette. 

Here was an adventure ! Whether or not he under- 

181 


THE DARK STAR 


stood it, here certainly was a real, story-book adventure 
at last. And he began to entertain a little more re- 
spect for those writers of romance who have so per- 
sistently attempted to convince an incredulous world 
that adventures are to be had anywhere and at any time 
for the mere effort entailed in seeking them. 

In his case, however, he had not sought adventure. 
It had been thrust upon him by cable. 

And now the drop of Irish in him gratefully re- 
sponded. He was much obliged to Fate for his eve- 
ning’s entertainment ; he modestly ventured to hope for 
favours to come. And, considering the coolly veiled 
threats of this young woman whom he had treated with 
scant ceremony, he had some reason to expect a sequel 
to the night’s adventure. 

“She,” he thought to himself, “had nothing on Godiva 
— except a piano cover!” 

Recollection of the absurd situation incited his repre- 
hensible merriment to the point of unrestrained laugh- 
ter; and he clasped his knees and rocked to and fro, 
where he sat on his suitcase, all alone under the stars. 

The midnight express was usually from five to forty 
minutes late at Orangeville; but from there east it 
made up time on the down grade to Albany. 

And now, as he sat watching, far away along the 
riverside a star came gliding into view around an un- 
seen curve — the headlight of a distant locomotive. 

A few moments later he was in his drawing-room, 
seated on the edge of the couch, his door locked, the 
shade over the window looking on the corridor drawn 
down as far as it would go; and the train rushing 
through the starry night on the down grade toward 
Albany. 

He could not screen the corridor window entirely; 

182 


SCHEHERAZADE 


- 

th^ shade seemed to be too short; but it was late, the 
corridor dark, all the curtains in the car closed tightly 
over the berths, and his privacy was not likely to be 
distiWbed. And when the conductor had taken both 
tickets and the porter had brought him a bottle of 
mineral water and gone away, he settled down with 
great content. 

Neeland was in excellent humour. He had not the 
slightest inclination to sleep. He sat on the side of his 
bed, smoking, the olive-wood box lying open beside him, 
and its curious contents revealed. 

But now, as he carefully examined the papers, pho- 
tographs, and drawings, he began to take the affair a 
little more seriously. And the possibility of further 
trouble raised his already high spirits and caused that 
little drop of Irish blood to sing agreeably in his 
veins. 

Dipping into Herr Wilner’s diary added a fillip to 
the increasing fascination that was possessing him. 

‘‘Well, I’m damned,” he thought, “if it doesn’t really 
look as though the plans of these Turkish forts might 
be important! I’m not very much astonished that the 
Kaiser and the Sultan desire to keep for themselves the 
secrets of these fortifications. They really belong to 
them, too. They were drawn and planned by a Ger- 
man.” He shrugged. “A rotten alliance I” he mut- 
tered, and picked up the bronze Chinese figure to ex- 
amine it. 

“So you’re the Yellow Devil I’ve heard about!” he 
said. “Well, you certainly are a pippin!” 

Inspecting him with careless curiosity, he turned the 
bronze over and over between his hands, noticing a 
slight rattling sound that seemed to come from within 
but discovering no reason for it. And, as he curiously 
183 


THE DARK STAR 


considered the scowling demon, he hummed an old song 
of his father’s under his breath: 

“Wan balmy day in May 
Th’ ould Nick come to the dure; 

Sez I ‘The divil’s to pay, 

An’ the debt comes harrd on the poor!’ 

His eyes they shone like fire 
An’ he gave a horrid groan; 

Sez I to me sister Suke, 

‘Suke ! ! ! I 

Tell him I ain’t at home!’ 

“He stood forninst the dure. 

His wings were wings of a bat. 

An’ he raised his voice to a roar, 

An’ the tail of him switched like a cat, 

‘O wirra the day!’ sez I, 

‘Ochone I’ll no more roam!’ 

Sez I to me brother Luke, 

‘Luke!!!! 

Tell him I ain’t at home !’ ” 

As he laid the bronze figure away and closed, locked 
and strapped the olive-wood box, an odd sensation crept 
over him as though somebody were overlooking what he 
was doing. Of course it could not be true, but so sud- 
den and so vivid was the impression that he rose, opened 
the door, and glanced into the private washroom — even 
poked under the bed and the opposite sofa; and of 
course discovered that only a living skeleton could lie 
concealed in such spaces. 

His courage, except moral courage, had never been 
particularly tested. He was naturally quite fearless, 
even carelessly so, and whether it was the courage of 
ignorance or a constitutional inability to be afraid 
never bothered his mind because he never thought about 
it. 


184 


SCHEHERAZADE 


Now, amused at his unusual fit of caution, he 
stretched himself out on his bed, still dressed, debating 
in his mind whether he should undress and try to sleep, 
or whether it were really worth while before he boarded 
the steamer. 

And, as he lay there, a cigarette between his lips, 
wakeful, his restless gaze wandering, he suddenly 
caught a glimpse of something moving — a human face 
pressed to the dark glass of the corridor window 
between the partly lowered shade and the cherry-wood 
sill. 

So amazed was he that the face had disappeared 
before he realised that it resembled the face of Use Du- 
mont. The next instant he was on his feet and opening 
the door of the drawing-room ; but the corridor between 
the curtained berths was empty and dark and still ; not 
a curtain fluttered. 

He did not care to leave his doorway, either, with 
the box lying there on his bed ; he stood with one hand 
on the knob, listening, peering into the dusk, still ex- 
cited by the surprise of seeing her on the same train 
that he had taken. 

However, on reflection, he quite understood that she 
could have had no difficulty in boarding the midnight 
train for New York without being noticed by him; be- 
cause he was not expecting her to do such a thing and 
he had paid no attention to the group of passengers 
emerging from the waiting room when the express rolled 
in. 

“This is rather funny,” he thought. “I wish I could 
find her. I wish she’d be friendly enough to pay me a 
visit. Scheherazade is certainly an entertaining girl. 
And it’s several hours to New York.” 

He lingered a while longer, but seeing and hearing 

185 


THE DARK STAR 


nothing except darkness and assorted snores, he stepped 
into his stateroom and locked the door again. 

Sleep was now impossible; the idea of Scheherazade 
prowling in the dark corridor outside amused him in- 
tensely, and aroused every atom of his curiosity. Did 
the girl really expect an opportunity to steal the box? 
Or was she keeping a sinister eye on him with a view to 
summoning accomplices from vasty metropolitan deeps 
as soon as the train arrived? Or, having failed at 
Brookhollow, was she merely going back to town to 
report ‘‘progress backward”? 

He finished his mineral water, and, still feeling 
thirsty, rang, on the chance that the porter might still 
be awake and obliging. 

Something about the entire affair was beginning to 
strike him as intensely funny, and the idea of foreign 
spies slinking about Brookhollow; the seriousness with 
which this young girl took herself and her mission ; her 
amateur attempts at murder; her solemn mention of 
the Turkish Embassy — all these excited his sense of the 
humorous. And again incredulity crept in; and pres- 
ently he found himself humming Irwin’s immortal Kai- 
ser refrain: 


‘‘Hi-lee! Hi-lo! 

Der vinds dey blow 

Joost like die wacht am Rhine! 

Und vot iss mine belongs to me, 

Und vot iss yours iss mine!'* 

There came a knock at his door; he rose and opened 
it, supposing it to be the porter ; and was seized in the 
powerful grasp of two men and jerked into the dark 
corridor. 

One of them had closed his mouth with a gloved hand, 

186 


SCHEHERAZADE 


crushing him with an iron grip around the neck; the 
other caught his legs and lifted him bodily ; and, as they 
slung him between them, his startled eyes caught sight 
of Use Dumont entering his drawing-room. 

It was a silent, fierce struggle through the corridor 
to the front platform of the vestibule train; it took 
both men to hold, overpower, and completely master 
him; but they tried to do this and, at the same time, 
lift the trap that discloses the car steps. And could 
not manage it. 

The instant Neeland realised what they were trying 
to do, he divined their shocking intention in regard to 
himself, and the struggle became terrible there in the 
swaying vestibule. Twice he nearly got at the auto- 
matic pistol in his breast pocket, but could not quite 
grasp it. They slammed him and thrashed him around 
between them, apparently determined to open the trap, 
fling him from the train, and let him take his chances 
with the wheels. 

Then, of a sudden, came a change in the fortunes of 
war ; they were trying to drag him over the chain sag- 
ging between the forward mail-car and the Pullman, 
when one of them caught his foot on it and stumbled 
backward, releasing Neeland’s right arm. In the same 
instant he drove his fist into the face of his other assail- 
ant so hard that the man’s head jerked backward as 
though his neck were broken, and he fell flat on his 
back. 

Already the train was slowing down for the single 
stop between Albany and New York — Hudson. Nee- 
land got out his pistol and pointed it shakily at the man 
who had fallen backward over the chain. 

“Jump !” he panted. “Jump quick !” 

The man needed no other warning; he opened the 

187 


THE DARK STAR 


trap, scrambled and wriggled down the mail-car steps, 
and was off the train like a snake from a sack. 

The other man, bloody and ghastly white, crept un- 
der the chain after his companion. He was a well- 
built, good-looking man of forty, with blue eyes and a 
golden beard all over blood. He seemed sick from the 
terrific blow dealt him; but as the train had almost 
stopped, Neeland pushed him off with the flat of his 
foot. 

Drenched in perspiration, dishevelled, bruised, he 
slammed both traps and ran back into the dark corri- 
dor, and met Use Dumont coming out of his stateroom 
carrying the olive-wood box. 

His appearance appeared to stupefy her ; he took the 
box from her without resistance, and, pushing her back 
into the stateroom, locked the door. 

Then, still savagely excited, and the hot blood of 
battle still seething in his veins, he stood staring wick- 
edly into her dazed eyes, the automatic pistol hanging 
from his right fist. 

But after a few moments something in her naive as- 
tonishment — her amazement to see him alive and stand- 
ing there before her — appealed to him as intensely ludi- 
crous ; he dropped on the edge of the bed and burst into 
laughter uncontrolled. 

“Scheherazade! Oh, Scheherazade!” he said, weak 
with laughter, “if you could only see your face ! If you 
could only see it, my dear child ! It’s too funny to be 
true! It’s too funny to be a real face! Oh, dear. I’ll 
die if I laugh any more. You’ll assassinate me with 
your face!” 

She seated herself on the lounge opposite, still gazing 
blankly at him in his uncontrollable mirth. 

After a while he put back the automatic into his 

188 


SCHEHERAZADE 


breast pocket, took off coat and waistcoat, without pay- 
ing the slightest heed to her or to convention; opened 
his own suitcase, selected a fresh shirt, tie, and collar, 
and, taking with him his coat and the olive-wood box, 
went into the little washroom. 

He scarcely expected to find her there when he 
emerged, cooled and refreshed; but she was still there, 
seated as he had left her on the lounge. 

wanted to ask you,” she said in a low voice, ‘‘did 
you hill them.^” 

“Not at all, Scheherazade,” he replied gaily. “The 
Irish don’t kill; they beat up their friends; that’s all. 
Fist and blackthorn, my pretty lass, but nix for the 
knife and gun.” 

“How — did you do it.^” 

“Well, I got tired having a ham-fisted Dutchman 
pawing me and closing my mouth with his big splay 
fingers. So I asked him to slide overboard and shoved 
his friend after him.” 

“Did you shoot them.?” 

“No, I tell you!” he said disgustedly. “I hadn’t a 
chance in hot blood, and I couldn’t do it in cold. No, 
Scheherazade, I didn’t shoot. I pulled a gun for dra- 
matic effect, that’s all.” 

After a silence she asked him in a low voice what he 
intended to do with her. 

“Do.? Nothing! Chat affably with you until we 
reach town, if you don’t mind. Nothing more violent 
than that, Scheherazade.” 

The girl, sitting sideways on the sofa, leaned her 
head against the velvet corner as though very tired. 
Her small hands lay in her lap listlessly, palms up- 
turned. 

“Are you really tired.?” he asked. 

189 


THE DARK STAR 


“Yes, a little.” 

He took the two pillows from his bed and placed 
them on the sofa. 

“You may lie down if you like, Scheherazade.” 

“Won’t you need them.?” 

“Sunburst of my soul, if I pillow my head on any- 
thing while you are in the vicinity, it will be on that 
olive-wood box !” 

For the first time the faintest trace of a smile 
touched her lips. She turned, settled the pillows to her 
liking, and stretched out her supple figure on the sofa 
with a slight sigh. 

“Shall I talk to you, Scheherazade, or let you snug- 
gle into the chaste arms of Morpheus.?” 

“I can’t sleep.” 

“Is it a talk-fest, then?” 

“I am listening.” 

“Then, were the two recent gentlemen who 50 rudely 
pounced upon me the same gentlemen who so cheerfully 
chased me in an automobile when you made red fire?” 

“Yes.” 

“I was betting on it. Nice-looking man — the one 
with the classical map and the golden Frick.” 

She said nothing. 

“Scheherazade,” he continued with smiling malice, 
“do you realise that you are both ornamental and 
young? Why so young and murderous, fair houri? 
Why delight in manslaughter in any degree ? Why cul- 
tivate assault and battery? Why swipe the property 
of others.?” 

She closed her eyes on the pillow, but, as he remained 
silent, presently opened them again. 

“I asked them not to hurt you,” she said irrele- 
vantly. 


190 


SCHEHERAZADE 


“Who ? Oh, your strenuous friends with the footpad 
technique? Well, they obeyed you unwillingly.” 

“Did they hurt you?” 

“Oh, no. But the car-wheels might have.” 

“The car-wheels?” 

“Yes. They were all for dumping me down the steps 
of the vestibule. But I’ve got a nasty disposition, Sche- 
herazade, and I kicked and bit and screamed so lustily 
that I disgusted them and they simply left the train 
and concluded to cut my acquaintance.” 

It was evident that his good-humoured mockery 
perplexed her. Once or twice the shadow of a smile 
passed over her dark eyes, but they remained uncertain 
and watchful. 

“You really were astonished to see me alive again, 
weren’t you?” he asked. 

“I was surprised to see you, of course.” 

“Alive?” 

“I told you that I asked them not to really hurt 
you.” 

“Do you suppose I believe that^ after your pistol 
practice on me?” 

“It is true,” she replied, her eyes resting on him. 

“You wished to reserve me for more pistol practice?” 

“I have no — enmity — for you.” 

“Oh, Scheherazade!” he protested, laughing. 

“You are wrong, Mr. Neeland.” 

“After all I did to you?” 

To his surprise a bright blush spread over her face 
where it lay framed by the pillows ; she turned her head 
abruptly and lay without speaking. 

He sat thinking for a few minutes, then leaning for- 
ward from where he sat on the bed’s edge : 

“After a man’s been shot at and further intimidated 

191 


THE DARK STAR 


with a large, unpleasantly rusty Kurdish dagger, he is 
likely to proceed without ceremony. All the same, I 
am sorry I had to humiliate you, Scheherazade.” 

She lay silent, unstirring. 

‘‘A girl would never forgive that, I know,” he said. 
“So I shall look for a short shrift from you if your 
opportunity ever comes.” 

The girl appeared to be asleep. He stood up and 
looked down at her. The colour had faded from the 
one cheek visible. For a while he listened to her quiet, 
breathing, then, the imp of perversity seizing him, ana 
intensely diverted by the situation, he bent over her, 
touched her cheek with his lips, put on his hat, took 
box and suitcase, and went out to spend the remaining 
hour or two in the smoking room, leaving her to sleep 
in peace. 

But no sooner had he closed the door on her than 
the girl sat straight up on the sofa, her face surging in 
colour, and her eyes brilliant with starting tears. 

When the train arrived at the Grand Central Station, 
in the grey of a July morning, Neeland, finding the 
stateroom empty, lingered to watch for her among the 
departing passengers. 

But he lingered in vain ; and presently a taxicab took 
him and his box to the Cunard docks, and deposited him 
there. And an hour later he was in his cabin on board 
that vast ensemble of machinery and luxury, the Cu- 
narder Volhynia, outward bound, and headed straight 
at the dazzling disc of the rising sun. 

And thought of Scheherazade faded from his mind as 
a tale that is told. 


CHAPTER XVII 


A WHITE SKIRT 

It was in mid-ocean that Neeland finally came to the 
conclusion that nobody on board the Volhynia was 
likely to bother him or his box. 

The July weather had been magnificent — blue skies, 
a gentle wind, and a sea scarcely silvered by a comber. 

Assorted denizens of the Atlantic took part in the 
traditional vaudeville performance for the benefit of the 
Volhynia passengers; gulls followed the wake to mid- 
ocean; Mother Carey’s chickens skimmed the baby bil- 
lows ; dolphins turned watery flip-flaps under the bows ; 
and even a distant whale consented to oblige. 

Everybody pervaded the decks morning, noon, and 
evening; the most squeamish recovered confidence in 
twenty-four hours ; and every constitutional lubber 
concluded he was a born sailor. 

Neeland really was one ; no nausea born from the bad 
adjustment of that anatomical auricular gyroscope re- 
cently discovered in man ever disturbed his abdominal 
nerves. Short of shipwreck, he enjoyed any entertain- 
ment the Atlantic offered him. 

So he was always on deck, tranquilly happy and with 
nothing in the world to disturb him except his responsi- 
bility for the olive-wood box. 

He dared not leave it in his locked cabin; he dared 
not entrust it to anybody ; he lugged it about with him 
wherever he went. On deck it stood beside his steamer 
chair; it dangled from his hand when he promenaded, 

193 


THE DARK STAR 


exciting the amazement and curiosity of others ; it re- 
posed on the floor under the table and beneath his at- 
tentive feet when he was at meals. 

These elaborate precautions indicated his wholesome 
respect for the persistence of Scheherazade and her 
friends ; he was forever scanning his fellow-voyagers 
at table, in the smoking room, and as they strolled to 
and fro in front of his steamer chair, trying to make 
up his mind concerning them. 

But Neeland, a clever observer of externals, was no 
reader of character. The passenger list never seemed 
to confirm any conclusions he arrived at concerning any 
of the passengers on the VoUiynia. A gentleman he 
mistook for an overfed broker turned out to be a popu- 
lar clergyman with outdoor proclivities ; a slim, poetic- 
looking youth who carried a copy of “Words and 
Wind” about the deck travelled for the Gold Leaf Lard 
Company. 

Taking them all in all, Neeland concluded that they 
were as harmless a collection of reconcentrados as he 
had ever observed; and he was strongly tempted to 
leave the box in his locked stateroom. 

He decided to do so one afternoon after luncheon, 
and, lugging his box, started to return to his stateroom 
with that intention, instead of going on deck, as usual, 
for a postprandial cigarette. 

There was nobody in the main corridor as he passed, 
but in the short, carpeted passage leading to his state- 
room he caught a glimpse of a white serge skirt vanish- 
ing into the stateroom opposite to his, and heard the 
door close and the noise of a key turned quickly. 

His steward, being questioned on the first day out, 
had told him that this stateroom was occupied by an 
invalid gentleman travelling alone, who preferred to 
194 


A WHITE SKIRT 


remain there instead of trusting to his crutches on a 
temperamental deck. 

Neeland, passing the closed and curtained door, won- 
dered whether the invalid had made a hit, or whether 
he had a relative aboard who wore a white serge skirt, 
white stockings and shoes, and was further endowed 
with agreeable ankles. 

He fitted his key to his door, turned it, withdrew the 
key to pocket it; and immediately became aware that 
the end of the key was sticky. 

He entered the stateroom, however, and bolted the 
door, then he sat down on his sofa and examined his 
fingers and his door key attentively. There was wax 
sticking to both. 

When he had fully digested this fact he wiped and 
pocketed his key and cast a rather vacant look around 
the little stateroom. And immediately his eye was 
arrested by a white object lying on the carpet between 
the bed and the sofa — a woman’s handkerchief, without 
crest or initials, but faintly scented. 

After he became tired of alternately examining it 
and sniffing it, he put it in his pocket and began an un- 
easy tour of his room. 

If it had been entered and ransacked, everything had 
been replaced exactly as he had left it, as well as he 
could remember. Nothing excepting this handkerchief 
and the wax on the key indicated intrusion; nothing, 
apparently, had been disturbed ; and yet there was the 
handkerchief ; and there was the wax on the end of his 
door key. 

“Here’s a fine business !” he muttered to himself ; and 
rang for his steward. 

The man came — a cockney, dense as his native fog — 
who maintained that nobody could have entered the 
195 


THE DARK STAR 


stateroom without his knowledge or the knowledge o£ 
the stewardess. 

“Do you think she’s been in my cabin 

“No, sir.” 

“Call her.” 

The stewardess, an alert, intelligent little woman 
with a trace of West Indian blood in her, denied en« 
tering his stateroom. Shown the handkerchief and in- 
vited to sniff it, she professed utter ignorance concern- 
ing it, assured him that no lady in her section used that 
perfume, and offered to show it to the stewardesses of 
other sections on the chance of their identifying the 
perfume or the handkerchief. 

“All right,” said Neeland; “take it. But bring it 
back. And here’s a sovereign. And — one thing more. 
If anybody pays you to deceive me, come to me and 
I’ll outbid them. Is that a bargain.?” 

“Yes, sir,” she said unblushingly. 

When she had gone away with the handkerchief, Nee- 
land closed the door again and said to the steward : 

“Keep an eye on my door. I am positive that some- 
body has taken a wax impression of the keyhole. What 
I said to that stewardess also holds good with you. I’ll 
outbid anybotly who bribes you.” 

“Very good, sir.” 

“Sure it’s good ! It’s devilish good. Here’s a beau- 
tiful and newly minted gold sovereign. Isn’t it artistic ? 
It’s yours, steward.” 

“Thanky, sir.” 

“Not at all. And, by the way, what’s that invalid 
gentleman’s name.?” 

“ ’Awks, sir.” 

“Hawks.?” 

“Yes, sir; Mr. ’Erbert ’Awks.” 

196 


A WHITE SKIRT 


“American ?” 

“I don’t know, sir.” 

“British.?” 

“Shall I inquire, sir?” starting to go. 

“Not of him! Don’t be a lunatic, steward! Please 
try to understand that I want nothing said about this 
matter or about my inquiries.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Very well, then! Find out, if you can, who Mr. 
Herbert Hawks is. Find out all you can concerning 
him. It’s easy money, isn’t it?” 

“Oh, yes, sir ” 

“Wait a moment. Has he any friends or relatives 
on board?” 

“Not that I know, sir.” 

“Oh, no friends, eh? No ladies who wear white serge 
skirts and white shoes and stockings?” 

“No, sir, not as I knows of.” 

“Oh! Suppose you step across to his door, knock, 
and ask him if he rang. And, if the door is opened, 
take a quick slant at the room.” 

“Very good, sir.” 

Neeland, his door at the crack, watched the steward 
cross the corridor and knock at the door of Mr. Her- 
bert Hawks. 

“Well, what iss it?” came a heavy voice from within. 

“Mr. ’Awks, sir, did you ring.?” 

“No, I did not.” 

“Oh, beg pardon, sir ” 

The steward was starting to return to Neeland, but 
that young man motioned him violently away from his 
door and closed it. Then, listening, his ear against 
the panel, he presently heard a door in the passage 
creak open a little way, then close again, stealthily, 

197 


THE DARK STAR 


He possessed his soul in patience, believing that Mr. 
Hawks or his fair friend in the white skirt had merely 
taken a preliminary survey of the passage and perhaps 
also of his closed door. But the vigil was vain ; the door 
did not reopen; no sound came from the stateroom 
across the passageway. 

To make certain that the owner of the white shoes 
and stockings did not leave that stateroom without his 
knowledge, he opened his door with many precautions 
and left it on the crack, stretching a rubber band from 
knob to bolt, so that the wind from the open port in 
the passage should not blow it shut. Then, drawing his 
curtain, he sat down to wait. 

He had a book, one of those slobbering American 
novels which serve up falsehood thickly buttered with 
righteousness and are consumed by the morally steri- 
lised. 

And, as he smoked he read; and, as he read he lis- 
tened. One eye always remained on duty ; one ear was 
alert; he meant to see who was the owner of the 
white shoes if it took the remainder of the voyage to 
find out. 

The book aided him as a commonplace accompani- 
ment aids a soloist — alternately boring and exasperat- 
ing him. 

It was an “uplift” book, where the heroine receives 
whacks with patient smiles. Fate boots her from pillar 
to post and she blesses Fate and is much obliged. That 
most deadly reproach to degenerate human nature — 
the accidental fact of sex — had been so skilfully extir- 
pated from those pages that, like chaste amoebae, the 
characters merely multiplied by immaculate subdivision ; 
and millions of lineal descendants of the American Dodo 
were made gleeful for $1.50 net. 

198 


A WHITE SKIRT 


It was hard work waiting, harder work reading, but 
between the two and a cigarette now and then Neeland 
managed to do his sentry go until dinner time ap- 
proached and the corridors resounded with the trample 
of the hungry. 

The stewardess reappeared a little later and re- 
turned to him his handkerchief and the following infor- 
mation : 

Mr. Hawks, it appeared, travelled with a trained 
nurse, whose stateroom was on another deck. That 
nurse was not in her stateroom, but a similar handker- 
chief was, scented with similar perfume. 

‘‘You’re a wonder,” said Neeland, placing some more 
sovereigns in her palm and closing her fingers over 
them. “What is the nurse’s name?” 

“Miss White.” 

“Very suitable name. Has she ever before visited 
Herr — I mean Mr . — Hawks in his stateroom?” 

“Her stewardess says she has been indisposed since 
we left New York.” 

“Hasn’t been out of her cabin?” 

“No.” 

“I see. Did you inquire what she looked like ?” 

“Her stewardess couldn’t be certain. The stateroom 
was kept dark and the tray containing her meals was 
left at the bedside. Miss White smokes.” 

“Yes,” said Neeland reflectively, “she smokes Red 
Light cigarettes, I believe. Thank you, very much. 
More sovereigns if you are discreet. And say to my 
steward that I’ll dine in my stateroom. Soup, fish, 
meat, any old thing you can think of. Do you under- 
stand ?” 

“Perfectly, sir.” 

When she had withdrawn he kneeled down on his 

199 


THE DARK STAR 


sofa and looked out through the port at the sunset 
sea. 

There was a possibility that Scheherazade and her 
friends might be on board the VolhyTiia. Who else 
would be likely to take wax impressions of his keyhole 
and leave a scented scrap of a handkerchief on his 
stateroom floor? 

That they had kept themselves not only out of sight 
but off the passenger list merely corroborated suspi- 
cion. That’s what they’d be likely to do. 

And now there was no question in his mind of leaving 
the box in his cabin. He’d cling to it like a good 
woman to alimony. Death alone could separate his box 
from him. 

As he knelt there, sniffing the salt perfume of the sea, 
his ears on duty detected the sound of a tray in the 
corridor. 

‘‘Leave it on the camp-table outside my door!” he 
said over his shoulder. 

“Very good, sir.” 

He was not hungry; he was thinking too hard. 

“Confound it,” he thought to himself, “am I to squat 
here in ambush for the rest of the trip?” 

The prospect was not agreeable for a man who loved 
the sea. All day and most of the starry night the hur- 
ricane deck called to him, and his whole anatomy re- 
sponded. And now to sit hunched up here like a rat in 
the hold was not to his taste. Suppose he should con- 
tinue to frequent the deck, carrying with him his box, 
of course. He might never discover who owned the 
white serge skirt or who owned the voice which pro- 
nounced is as “iss.” 

Meanwhile, it occurred to him that for a quarter of 
an hour or more his dinner outside his door had been 
200 


A WHITE SKIRT 


growing colder and colder. So he slid from the sofa, 
unstrapped the rubber band, opened the door, lifted 
table and tray into his stateroom with a sharp glance 
at the opposite door, and, readjusting the rubber band, 
composed himself to eat. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


BY RADIO 

Perhaps it was because he did not feel particularly 
hungry that his dinner appeared unappetising; possi- 
bly because it had been standing in the corridor outside 
his door for twenty minutes, which did not add to its 
desirability. 

The sun had set and the air in the room had grown 
cold. He felt chilly ; and, when he uncovered the silver 
tureen and discovered that the soup was still piping hot? 
he drank some of it to warm himself. 

He had swallowed about half a cupful before he dis- 
covered that the seasoning was not agreeable to his 
palate. In fact, the flavour of the hot broth was so 
decidedly unpleasant that he pushed aside the cup and 
sat down on the edge of his bunk without any further 
desire to eat anything. 

A glass of water from the carafe did not seem to rid 
him of the subtle, disagreeable taste lingering in his 
mouth — in fact, the water itself seemed to be tainted 
with it. 

He sat for a few moments fumbling for his cigarette 
case, feeling curiously uncomfortable, as though the 
slight motion of the ship were aflPecting his head. 

As he sat there looking at the unlighted cigarette in 
his hand, it fell to the carpet at his feet. He started 
to stoop for it, caught himself in time, pulled himself 
erect with an efi^ort. 

Something was wrong with him — very wrong. Every 

SOS 


BY RADIO 


uneven breath he drew seemed to fill his lungs with the 
odour of that strange and volatile flavour he had no- 
ticed. It was beginning to make him giddy; it seemed 
to affect his vision, too. 

Suddenly a terrible comprehension flashed through 
his confused mind, clearing it for a moment. 

He tried to stand up and reach the electric bell; his 
knees seem incapable of sustaining him. Sliding to the 
floor, he attempted to crawl toward the olive-wood box ; 
managed to get one arm around it, grip the handle. 
Then, with a last desperate effort, he groped in his 
breast pocket for the automatic pistol, freed it, tried 
to fire it. But the weapon and the unnerved hand that 
held it fell on the carpet. A muscular paralysis set in 
like the terrible rigidity of death ; he could still see and 
hear as in a thickening dream. 

A moment later, from the corridor, a slim hand was 
inserted between the door and jamb; the supple fingers 
became busy with the rubber band for a moment, re- 
leased it. The door opened very slowly. 

For a few seconds two dark eyes were visible between 
door and curtain, regarding intently the figure lying 
prone upon the floor. Then the curtain was twitched 
noiselessly aside; a young woman in the garb of a 
trained nurse stepped swiftly into the stateroom on tip- 
toe, followed by a big, good-looking, blue-eyed man 
wearing a square golden beard. 

The man, who carried with him a pair of crutches, 
but who did not appear to require their aid, hastily set 
the dinner-tray and camp-table outside in the corridor, 
then closed and bolted the door. 

Already the nurse was down on her knees beside the 
fallen man, trying to loosen his grasp on the box. Then 
her face blanched. 


203 


THE DARK STAB 


“It’s like the rigor of death itself,” she whispered 
fearfully over her shoulder. “Could I have given him 
enough to kill him.^” 

“He took only half a cup and a swallow of water. 
No.” 

“I can’t get his hand free ” 

“Wait! I try!” He pulled a big, horn-handled 
clasp-knife from his pocket and deliberately opened the 
eight-inch blade. 

“What are you doing.?” she whispered, seizing his 
wrist. “Don’t do that!” 

The man with the golden beard hesitated, then 
shrugged, pocketed his knife, and seized Neeland’s 
rigidly clenched hand. 

“You are right. It makes too much muss!” tugging 
savagely at the clenched and unconscious hand. “Sac- 
reminton! What for a death-grip is this KerVsf If I 
cut his hand off so iss there blood and gossip right 
away already. No — too much muss. Wait! I try an- 
other way ” 

Neeland groaned. 

“Oh, don’t! Don’t!” faltered the girl. “You’re 
breaking his wrist ” 

“Ugh !” grunted her companion ; “I try ; I can it not 
accomplish. See once if the box opens !” 

“It is locked.” 

“Search this pig^dog for the key!” 

She began a hurried search of Neeland’s clothing; 
presently discovered her own handkerchief; thrust it 
into her apron pocket, and continued rummaging while 
the bearded man turned his attention to the automatic 
pistol. This he finally succeeded in disengaging, and 
he laid it on the wash basin. 

“Here are his keys,” whispered the nurse feverishly^ 
204 . 


BY RADIO 


holding them up against the dim circle of evening sky 
framed by the open port. “You had better light the 
stateroom; I can’t see. Hurry! I think he is begin- 
ning to recover.” 

When the bearded man had switched on the electric 
light he returned to kneel once more beside the inert 
body on the floor, and began to pull and haul and tug 
at the box and attempt to insert the key in the lock. 
But the stiffened clutch of the drugged man made it 
impossible either to release the box or get at the key- 
hole. 

*‘Ach, was! Verfluchtete^ schwem-Jiwnd /” He 

seized the rigid hand and, exerting all the strength of 
a brutally inflamed fury, fairly ripped loose the fingers. 

**Also!'* he panted, seizing the stiflTened body from 
the floor and lifting it. “Hold you him by the long 
and Yankee legs once, und I push him out ” 

“Out of the port?” 

**Gezdss! Otherwise he recovers to raise some hell !” 

“It is not necessary. How shall this man know?” 

“You left your handkerchief. He iss no fool. He 
makes a noise. No, it iss safer we push him overboard.” 

“I’ll take the papers to Karl, and then I can remain 
in my stateroom ” 

**No! Lift his legs, I tell you ! You want I hold him 
in my arms all day while you talk, talk, talk! You take 
his legs right away quick !” 

He staggered a few paces forward with his unwieldy 
burden and, setting one knee on the sofa, attempted to 
force Neeland’s head and shoulders through the open 
port. At the same moment a rapid knocking sounded 
outside the stateroom door. 

“Quick!” breathed the nurse. “Throw him on his 
bed!” 


205 


THE DARK STAR 


The blue-eyed, golden-bearded man hesitated, then 
as the knocking sounded again, imperative, persistent, 
he staggered to the bed with his burden, laid it on the 
pillows, seized his crutches, rested on them, breathing 
heavily, and listening to the loud and rapid knocking 
outside the door. 

“We’ve got to open,” she whispered. “Don’t forget 
that we found him unconscious in the corridor !” And 
she slid the bolt noiselessly, opened the stateroom door, 
and stepped outside the curtain into the corridor. 

The cockney steward stood there with a messenger. 

“Wireless for Mr. Neeland ” he began; but his 

speech failed and his jaw fell at sight of the nurse in 
her cap and uniform. And when, on his crutches, the 
bearded man emerged from behind the curtain, the stew- 
ard’s eyes fairly protruded. 

“The young gentleman is ill,” explained the nurse 
coolly. “Mr. Hawks heard him fall in the corridor and 
came out on his crutches to see what had happened. I 
chanced to be passing through the main corridor, for- 
tunately. I am doing what I can for the young gen- 
tleman.” 

“Ow,” said the steward, staring over her shoulder 
at the bearded man on crutches. 

“There iss no need of calling the ship’s doctor,” said 
the man on crutches. “This young woman iss a hos- 
pital nurse wnd she iss so polite and obliging to volun- 
teer her service for the poor young gentleman.” 

“Yes,” she said carelessly, “I can remain here for 
an hour or two with him. He requires only a few simple 
remedies — I’ve already given him a sedative, and he is 
sleeping very nicely.” 

“Yess, yess ; it iss not grave. Pooh ! It is notting. 
He slip and knock his head. Maybe too much tcham- 
206 


BY RADIO 


pagne. He sleep, and by and by he feel better. It iss 
not advisable to make a fuss. So ! We are not longer 
needed, steward. I return to my room.” 

And, nodding pleasantly, the bearded man hobbled 
out on his crutches and entered his own stateroom 
across the passage. 

“Steward,” said the nurse pleasantly, “you may leave 
the wireless telegram with me. When Mr. Neeland 
wakes I’ll read it to him ” 

“Give that telegram to TneP’ burst out a ghostly 
voice from the curtained room behind her. 

Every atom of colour left her face, and she stood 
there as though stiffened into marble. The steward 
stared at her. Still staring, he passed gingerly in front 
of her and entered the curtained room. 

Neeland was lying on his bed as white as death; 
but his eyes fluttered open in a dazed way: 

“Steward,” he whispered. 

“Yes, sir, Mr. Neeland.” 

“My — box.” His eyes closed. 

“Box, sir.?” 

“Where — is — it .?” 

“Which box, sir.? Is it this one here on the floor?” — 
lifting the olive-wood box in its case. The key was in 
the lock; the other keys hung from it, dangling on a 
steel ring. 

The nurse stepped calmly into the room. 

“Steward,” she said in her low, pleasant voice, “the 
sedative I gave him has probably confused his mind a 
little ” 

“Put that box — under — my head,” interrupted Nee- 
land’s voice like a groan. 

“I tell you,” whispered the nurse, “he doesn’t know 
what he is saying.” 


207 


THE DARK STAR 


“I got to obey him, ma’am ” 

“I forbid you 

“Steward!” gasped Neeland. 

“Sir?” 

“My box. I — want it.” 

“Certainly, sir ” 

“Here, beside my — pillow.” 

“Yes, sir.” He laid the box beside the sick man. 

“Is it locked, steward?” 

“Key sticking in it, sir. Yes, it’s locked, sir.” 

“Open.” 

The nurse, calm, pale, tight-lipped, stood by the cur- 
tain looking at the bed over which the steward leaned, 
opening the box. 

“ ’Ere you are, sir,” he said, lifting the cover. “I 
say, nurse, give ’im a lift, won’t you?” 

The nurse coolly stepped to the bedside, stooped, 
raised the head and shoulders of the prostrate man. 
After a moment his eyes unclosed ; he looked at the con- 
tents of the box with a perceptible effort. 

“Lock it, steward. Place it beside me. . . . Next 
the wall. . . . So. . . . Place the keys in my pocket. 
. . . Thank you. ... I had a — pistol.” 

“Sir.?” 

“A pistol. Where is it?” 

The steward’s roving glance fell finally upon the 
washbasin. He walked over, picked up the automatic, 
and, with an indescribable glance at the nurse, laid it 
across Neeland’s upturned palm. 

The young man’s fingers fumbled it, closed over the 
handle ; and a ghost of a smile touched his ashen face. 

“Do you feel better, sir?” 

“I’m tired. . . . Yes, I feel — better.” 

“Can I do anything for you, Mr. Neeland.?*’ 

208 


BY RADIO 


“Stay outside — my door.” 

“Do you wish the doctor, sir.?” 

“No. . . . No! . . . Don’t call him; do you hear.?” 

“I won’t call him, sir.” 

“No, don’t call him.” 

“No, sir. . . . Mr. Neeland, there is a — a trained 
nurse here. You will not want her, will you, sir.?” 

Again the shadow of a smile crept over Neeland’s 
face. 

“Did she come for^ — ^her handkerchief?” 

There was a silence; the steward looked steadily at 
the nurse ; the nurse’s dark eyes were fixed on the man 
lying there before her. 

“You shan’t be wanting her any more, shall you, 
sir.?” repeated the steward, not shifting his gaze. 

“Yes; I think I shall want her — for a little while.” 
. . . Neeland slowly opened his eyes, smiled up at the 
motionless nurse: “How are you, Scheherazade.?” he 
said weakly. And, to the steward, with an effort : “Miss 
White and I are — old friends. . . . However — kindly 
remain outside — my door. . . . And throw what re- 
mains of my dinner — out of — the port. . . . And be 
ready — at all times — to look after the — gentleman on 
crutches. . . . I’m — fond of him. . . . Thank you, 
steward.” 

Long after the steward had closed the stateroom 
door. Use Dumont stood beside Neeland’s bed without 
stirring. Once or twice he opened his eyes and looked 
at her humorously. After a while he said : 

“Please be seated, Scheherazade.” 

She calmly seated herself on the edge of his couch. 

“Horrid soup,” he murmured. “You should attend 
a cooking school, my dear.” 

209 


THE DARK STAR 


She regarded him absently, as though other matters 
absorbed her, 

‘‘Yes,” he repeated, “as a cook you’re a failure, 
Scheherazade. That broth which you seasoned for me 
has done funny things to my eyes, too. But they’re 
recovering. I see much better already. My vision is 
becoming sufficiently clear to observe how pretty you 
are in your nurse’s cap and apron.” 

A slow colour came into her face and he saw her 
eyebrows bend inward as though she were annoyed. 

“You are pretty, Scheherazade,” he repeated. “You 
know you are, don’t you.^ But you’re a poor cook 
and a rotten shot. You can’t be perfection, you know. 
Cheer up!” 

She ignored the suggestion, her dark eyes brooding 
and remote again ; and he lay watching her with placid 
interest in which no rancour remained. He was feel- 
ing decidedly better every minute now. He lifted the 
automatic pistol and shoved it. under his pillow, then 
cautiously flexed his fingers, his arms, and finally his 
knees, with increasing pleasure and content. 

“Such dreadful soup,” he said. “But I’m a lot bet- 
ter, thank you. Was it to have been murder this time, 
too, Scheherazade.'’ Would the entire cupful have made 
a pretty angel of me.? Oh, fie! Naughty Schehera- 
zade!” 

She remained mute. 

“Didn’t you mean manslaughter with intent to ex- 
terminate.?” he insisted, watching her. 

Perhaps she was thinking of her blond and beard- 
ed companion, and the open port, for she made no 
reply. 

“Why didn’t you let him heave me out?” inquired 
Neeland. “Why di<J you object.?” 

210 


BY RADIO 


At that she reddened to the roots of her hair, under- 
'.►tanding that what she feared had been true — that 
Neeland, while physically helpless, had retained suf- 
dcient consciousness to be aware of what was happening 
to him and to understand at least a part of the con- 
versation. 

“What was the stuff with which you flavoured that 
soup, Scheherazade ?” 

He was merely baiting her; he did not expect any 
reply; but, to his surprise, she answered him: 

“Threlanium — Speyer’s solution is what I used,” she 
said with a sort of listless effrontery. 

“Don’t know it. Don’t like it, either. Prefer other 
condiments.” 

He lifted himself on one elbow, remained propped so, 
tore open his wireless telegram, and, after a while, 
contrived to read it: 

“James Neeland, 

“S. S. Volhynia. 

“Spies aboard. Be careful. If trouble threatens cap- 
tain has instructions British Government to protect you 
and order arrests on your complaint. 

“Naia.” 

With a smile that was almost a grin, Neeland handed 
the telegram to Use Dumont. 

“Scheherazade,” he said, “you’ll be a good little girl, 
now, won’t you.^ Because it would be a shocking thing 
for you and your friend across the way to land in 
England wearing funny bangles on your wrists and 
keeping step with each other, wouldn’t it.?” 

She continued to hold the slip of paper and stare at 
it long after she had finished reading it and the words 
became a series of parallel blurs. 

gll 


THE BARK STAR 


“Scheherazade,” he said lightly, “what on earth am 
I going to do with you?” 

“I suppose you will lodge a charge with the captain 
against me,” she replied in even tones. 

“Why not? You deserve it, don’t you? You and 
your humorous friend with the yellow beard?” 

She looked at him with a vague smile. 

“What can you prove?” said she. 

“Perfectly true, dear child. Nothing. I don’t want 
to prove anything, either.” 

She smiled incredulously. 

“It’s quite true, Scheherazade. Otherwise, I shouldn’t 
have ordered my steward to throw the remains of my 
dinner out of the corridor porthole. No, dear child. 
I should have had it analysed, had your stateroom 
searched for more of that elusive seasoning you used 
to flavour my dinner; had a further search made for 
a certain sort of handkerchief and perfume. Also, 
just imagine the delightful evidence which a thorough 
search of your papers might reveal!” He laughed. 
“No, Scheherazade; I did not care to prove you any- 
thing resembling a menace to society. Because, in the 
first place, I am absurdly grateful to you.” 

Her face became expressionless under the slow flush 
mounting. 

“I’m not teasing you,” he insisted. “What I say is 
true. I’m grateful to you for violently injecting ro- 
mance into my perfectly commonplace existence. You 
have taken the book of my life and not only extra 
illustrated it with vivid and chromatic pictures, but you 
have unbound it, sewed into its prosaic pages several 
chapters ripped bodily from a penny-dreadful, and 
you have then rebound the whole thing and pasted your 
own pretty picture on the cover ! Come, now ! Ou^t 
212 


BY RADIO 


not a man to be grateful to any philanthropic girl who 
so gratuitously obliges him?” 

Her face burned under his ridicule; her clasped 
hands in her lap were twisted tight as though to main- 
tain her self-control. 

“What do you want of me?” she asked between lips 
that scarcely moved. 

He laughed, sat up, stretched out both arms with a 
sigh of satisfaction. The colour came back to his 
face; he dropped one leg over the bed’s edge; and she 
stood erect and stepped aside for him to rise. 

No dizziness remained; he tried both feet on the floor, 
straightened himself, cast a gaily malicious glance at 
her, and slowly rose to his feet. 

“Scheherazade,” he said, it funny? I ask you, 

did you ever hear of a would-be murderess and her 
escaped victim being on such cordial terms? Did you?” 

He was going through a few calisthenics, gingerly 
but with increasing abandon, while he spoke. 

“I feel fine, thank you. I am enjoying the situation 
extremely, too. It’s a delightful paradox, this situa- 
tion. It’s absurd, it’s enchanting, it’s incredible ! 
There is only one more thing that could make it per- 
fectly impossible. And I’m going to do it !” And he 
deliberately encircled her waist and kissed her. 

She turned white at that, and, as he released her, 
laughing, took a step or two blindly, toward the door; 
stood there with one hand against it as though support- 
ing herself. 

After a few moments, and very slowly, she turned 
and looked at him ; and that young man was scared for 
the first time since their encounter in the locked house 
in Brookhollow. 

Yet in her face there was no anger, no menace, noth- 

213 


THE DARK STAR 


ing he had ever before seen in any woman’s face, noth- 
ing that he now comprehended. Only, for the moment, 
it seemed to him that something terrible was gazing 
at him out of this girl’s fixed eyes — something that 
he did not recognise as part of her — another being 
hidden within her, staring out through her eyes at 
him. 

“For heaven’s sake, Scheherazade-^ ” he faltered. 

She opened the door, still watching him over her 
shoulder, shrank through it, and was gone. 

He stood for a full five minutes as though stupefied, 
then walked to the door and flung it open. And met 
a ship’s officer face to face, already lifting his hand 
to knock for admittance. 

“Mr. Neeland.^” he asked. 

“Yes.” 

“Captain West’s compliments, and he would be glad 
to see you in his cabin.” 

“Thank you. My compliments and thanks to Cap- 
tain West, and I shall call on him immediately.” 

They exchanged bows; the officer turned, hesitated, 
glanced at the steward who stood by the port. 

“Did you bring a radio message to Mr. Neeland.^” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Yes, I received the message,” said Neeland. 

“The captain requests you to bring the message with 
you.” 

“With pleasure,” said Neeland. 

So the officer went away down the corridor, and 
Neeland sat down on his bed, opened the box, went over 
carefully every item of its contents, relocked it with 
a grin of satisfaction, and, taking it with him, went 
oflT to pay a visit to the captain of the Volhynia, 

The bearded gentleman in the stateroom across the 


BY RADIO 


passage had been listening intently to the conversation, 
with his ear flat against his keyhole. 

And now, without hesitating, he went to a satchel 
which stood on the sofa in his stateroom, opened it, 
took from it a large bundle of papers and a ten-pound 
iron scale-weight. 

Attaching the weight to the papers by means of a 
heavy strand of copper wire, he mounted the sofa and 
hurled the weighted package into the Atlantic Ocean. 

“Pig-dogs of British,” he muttered in his golden 
beard, “you may go and dive for them when The Day 
dawns.” 

Then he filled and lighted a handsome porcelain pipe, 
and puffed it with stolid satisfaction, leaving the 
pepper-box silver cover open. 

*'Der Tag'^ he muttered in his golden beard; and his 
clear eyes swept the starlit ocean with the pensive and 
terrifying scrutiny of a waiting eagle. 


CHAPTER XIX 


THE CAPTAIN OF THE VOLHYNIA 

The captain of the Volhyma had just come from the 
bridge and was taking a bite of late supper in his cabin 
when the orderly announced Neeland. He rose at once, 
offering a friendly hand: 

“Mr. Neeland, I am very glad to see you. I know 
you by name and reputation already. There were some 
excellent pictures by you in the latest number of the 
Midweek Magazine. 

“I’m so glad you liked them, Captain West.” 

“Yes, I did. There was a breeze in them — a gaiety. 
And such a fetching girl you drew for your heroine!’^ 

“You think so! It’s rather interesting. I met a 
young girl once — she comes from up-state where I 
come from. There was a peculiar and rather subtle 
attraction about her face. So I altered the features 
of the study I was making from my model, and put 
in hers as I remembered them.” 

“She must be beautiful, Mr. Neeland.” 

“It hadn’t struck me so until I drew her from mem- 
ory. And there’s more to the story. I never met her 
but twice in my life — the second time under exceed- 
ingly dramatic circumstances. And now I’m crossing 
the Atlantic at a day’s notice to oblige her. It’s an 
amusing story, isn’t it?” 

“Mr. Neeland, I think it is going to be what you 
call a ‘continued’ story.” 

“No. Oh, no. It ought to be, considering its ele 

216 


THE CAPTAIN OF THE VOLHYNIA 


ments. But it isn’t. There’s no further romance in 
it, Captain West.” 

The captain’s smile was pleasant but sceptical. 

They seated themselves, Neeland declining an invita- 
tion to supper, and the captain asking his indulgence 
if he talked while eating. 

“Mr. Neeland,” he said, “I’m about to talk rather 
frankly with you. I have had several messages by 
wireless today from British sources, concerning you.” 

Neeland, surprised, said nothing. Captain West fin- 
ished his bite of supper ; the steward removed the dishes 
and went out, closing the door. The captain glanced 
at the box which Neeland had set on the floor by his 
chair. 

“May I ask,” he said, “why you brought your suit- 
case with you.^” 

“It’s valuable.” 

The captain’s keen eyes were on his. 

“Why are you followed by spies?” he asked. 

Neeland reddened. 

“Yes,” continued the captain of the Volhynia, “my 
Government instructs me, by wireless, to oflPer you any 
aid and protection you may desire. I am informed 
that you carry papers of military importance to a cer- 
tain foreign nation with which neither England nor 
France are on what might be called cordial terms. I 
am told it is likely that agents of this foreign country 
have followed you aboard my ship for the purpose of 
robbing you of these papers. Now, Mr. Neeland, what 
do you know about this business?” 

“Very little,” said Neeland. 

“Have you had any trouble?” 

“Oh, yes.” 

The captain smiled: 


217 


THE BARK STAR 


“Evidently you have wriggled out of it,” he said. 

“Yes, wriggled is the literal word.” 

“Then you do not think that you require any protec- 
tion from me.?” 

“Perhaps I do. I’ve been a singularly innocent and 
lucky ass. It’s merely chance that my papers have 
not been stolen, even before I started in quest of them.” 

“Have you been troubled aboard my ship.?” 

Neeland waved his hand carelessly: 

“Nothing to speak of, thank you.” 

“If you have any charge to make ” 

“Oh, no.” 

The captain regarded him intently : 

“Let me tell you something,” he said. “Since we 
sailed, have you noticed the bulletins posted contain- 
ing our wireless news.?” 

“Yes, I’ve read them.” 

“Did they interest you?” 

“Yes. You mean that row between Austria and 
Servia over the Archduke’s murder?” 

“I mean exactly that, Mr. Neeland. And now I am 
going to tell you something else. Tonight I had a 
radio message which I shall not post on the bulletins 
for various reasons. But I shall tell you under the seal 
of confidence.” 

“I give you my word of honour,” said Neeland 
quietly. 

“I accept it, Mr. Neeland. And this is what has hap- 
pened : Austria has decided on an ultimatum to Servia. 
And probably will send it.” 

They remained silent for a moment, then the captain 
continued : 

“Why should we deceive ourselves .? This is the most 
serious thing that has happened since the Hohenzollern 
gl8 


THE CAPTAIN OF THE VOLHYNIA 


incident which brought on the Franco-Prussian War.” 

Neeland nodded. 

“You see?” insisted the captain. “Suppose the 
humiliation is too severe for Servia to endure? Sup- 
pose she refuses the Austrian terms ? Suppose Austria 
mobilises against her? What remains for Russia to 
do except to mobilise? And, if Russia does that, what 
is going to happen in Germany? And then, instantly 
and automatically, what will follow in France?” His 
mouth tightened grimly. “England,” he said, “is the 
ally of France. Ask yourself, Mr. Neeland, what are 
the prospects of this deadly combination and deadlier 
situation.” 

After a few moments the young man looked up from 
his brown study: 

“I’d like to ask you a question — perhaps not germane 
to the subject. May I.?” 

“Ask it.” 

“Then, of what interest are Turkish forts to any of 
the various allied nations — to the Triple Entente or 
the Triple Alliance?” 

“Turkish fortifications ?” 

“Yes — plans for them.” 

The captain glanced instinctively at the box beside 
Neeland’s chair, but his features remained incurious. 

“Turkey is supposed to be the ally of Germany,” 
he said. 

“I’ve heard so. I know that the Turkish army is 
under German officers. But — if war should happen, 
is it likely that this ramshackle nation which was fought 
to a standstill by the Balkan Alliance only a few months 
ago would be likely to take active sides?” 

“Mr. Neeland, it is not only likely, it is absolutely 
certain.’’ 


219 


THE DARK STAR 


‘^You believe Germany would count on her?” 

“There is not a doubt of it. Enver Pasha holds the 
country in his right hand ; Enver Pasha is the Kaiser’s 
jackal.” 

“But Turkey is a beaten, discredited nation. She 
has no modern guns. Her fleet is rusting in the Bos- 
porus.” 

“The Dardanelles bristle with Krupp cannon, Mr. 
Neeland, manned by German gunners. Von der Goltz 
Pasha has made of a brave people a splendid army. 
As for ships, the ironclads and gunboats oflf Seraglio 
Point are rusting at anchor, as you say ; but there are 
today enough German and Austrian armored ships 
within running distance of the Dardanelles to make 
for Turkey a powerful defensive squadron. Didn’t you 
know any of these facts?” 

“No.” 

“Well, they are facts. . . .You see, Mr. Neeland, 
we English sailors of the merchant marine are also 
part of the naval reserve. And we are supposed to 
know these things.” 

Neeland was silent. 

“Mr. Neeland,” he said, “in case of war between the 
various powers of Europe as aligned today, where do 
you imagine your sympathy would He — and the sym- 
pathies of America.?” 

“Both with France and England,” said Neeland 
bluntly. 

“You think so.?” 

“Yes, I do — unless they are the aggressors.” 

The captain nodded : 

“I feel rather that way myself. I feel very sure of 
the friendliness of your country. Because of course we 
—France and England — never would dream of attack- 

no 


THE CAPTAIN OF THE VOLHYNIA 


ing the Central Powers unless first assailed.” He 
smiled, nodded toward the box on the floor: “Don’t 
you think, Mr. Neeland, that it might be safer to en- 
trust those — that box, I mean — to the captain of the 
Royal Mail steamer, VolkyniaV^ 

“Yes, I do,” said Neeland quietly. 

“And — about these spies. Do you happen to enter- 
tain any particular suspicions concerning any of the 
passengers on my ship.?^” urged the captain. 

“Indeed, I entertain lively suspicions, and even a few 
certainties,” replied the young fellow, laughing. 

“You appear to enjoy the affair 

“I do. I’ve never had such a good time. I’m not 
going to spoil it by suggesting that you lock up any- 
body, either.” 

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” said the captain 
seriously. 

“But I do. They’re friends of mine. They’ve given 
me the time of my life. A dirty trick I’d be serving 
myself as well as them if I came to you and preferred 
charges against them!” 

The captain inspected him curiously for a few mo- 
ments, then, in a soft voice: 

“By any chance, Mr. Neeland, have you any Irish 
blood in your veins.?” 

“Yes, thank God 1” returned the young fellow, unable 
to control his laughter. “And I’ll bet there isn’t a 
drop in you, Captain West.” 

“Not a drop, thank G — I’m sorry ! — I ask your par- 
don, Mr. Neeland!” added the captain, very red in the 
face. 

But Neeland laughed so hard that, after a moment, 
the red died out in the captain’s face and a faint grin 
came into it. 




THE DARK STAR 


So they shook hands and said good night; and Nee- 
land went away, leaving his box on the floor of the cap- 
tain’s cabin as certain of its inviolability as he was of 
the Bank of England. 


CHAPTER XX 


THE DROP OF IRISH 

The usual signs of land greeted Neeland when he 
rose early next morning and went out on deck for the 
first time without his olive-wood box — first a few gulls, 
then puffins, terns, and other sea fowl in increasing 
numbers, weed floating, fishing smacks, trawlers tossing 
on the rougher coast waters. 

After breakfast he noticed two British torpedo boat 
destroyers, one to starboard, the other on the port bow, 
apparently keeping pace with the Volhynia. They 
were still there at noon, subjects of speculation among 
the passengers; and at tea-time their number was in- 
creased to five, the three new destroyers appearing 
suddenly out of nowhere, dead ahead, dashing for- 
ward through a lively sea under a swirling vortex of 
gulls. 

The curiosity of the passengers, always easily 
aroused, became more thoroughly stirred up by the bul- 
letins posted late that afternoon, indicating that the 
tension between the several European chancelleries was 
becoming acute, and that emperors and kings were ex- 
changing personal telegrams. 

There was all sorts of talk on deck and at the dinner 
table, wild talk, speculative talk, imaginative discus- 
sions, logical and illogical. But, boiled down to its 
basic ingredients, the wildest imagination on board 
the Volhynia admitted war to be an impossibility of 
modem times, and that, ultimately, diplomacy would 
223 


THE DARK STAR 


settle what certainly appeared to be the ugliest inter- 
national situation in a hundred years. 

At the bottom of his heart Neeland believed this, too; 
wished for it when his higher and more educated spirit- 
ual self was flatly interrogated; and yet, in the every- 
day, impulsive ego of James Neeland, the drop of Irish 
had begun to sing and seethe with the atavistic instinct 
for a row. 

War? He didn’t know what it meant, of course. It 
made good poetry and interesting fiction; it rendered 
history amusing; made dry facts succulent. 

Preparations for war in Europe, which had been 
going on for fifty years, were most valuable, too, in 
contributing the brilliant hues of uniforms to an other- 
wise sombre civilian world, and investing commonplace 
and sober cities with the omnipresent looming mys- 
tery of fortifications. 

To a painter, war seemed to be a dramatic and gor- 
geous affair; to a young man it appealed as all excite- 
ment appeals. The sportsman in him desired to witness 
a scrap ; his artist’s imagination was aroused ; the 
gambler in him speculated as to the outcome of such 
a war. And the seething, surging drop of Irish fizzed 
and purred and coaxed for a chance to edge sideways 
into any fight which God in His mercy might provide 
for a decent gossoon who had never yet had the pleasure 
of a broken head. 

“Not,” thought Neeland to himself, “that I’ll go 
trailing my coat tails. I’ll go about my own business, 
of course — ^but somebody may hit me a crack at 
that !” 

He thought of Use Dumont and of the man with 
the golden beard, realising that he had had a wonderful 
time, after all; sorry in his heart that it was all over 


THE DROP OF IRISH 


and that the Volhynia was due to let go her mudhooks 
in the Mersey about three o’clock the next morning. 

As he leaned on the deck rail in the soft July dark' 
ness, he could see the lights of the destroyers to port 
and starboard, see strings of jewel-like signals flash, 
twinkle, fade, and flash again. 

All around him along the deck passengers were 
promenading, girls in evening gowns or in summer 
white; men in evening dress or reefed in blue as nau- 
tically as possible ; old ladies toddling, swathed in veils, 
old gentlemen in dinner coats and sporting headgear — 
every weird or conventional combination infested the 
decks of the Volhynia, 

Now, for the first time during the voyage, Neeland 
felt free to lounge about where he listed, saunter wher- 
ever the whim of the moment directed his casual steps. 
The safety of the olive-wood box was no longer on his 
mind, the handle no longer in his physical clutch. He 
was at liberty to stroll as carelessly as any boulevard 
flaneur; and he did so, scanning the passing throng for 
a glimpse of Use Dumont or of the golden-bearded one, 
but not seeing either of them. 

In fact, he had not laid eyes on them since he had 
supped not wisely but too well on the soup that Sche- 
herazade had flavoured for him. 

The stateroom door of the golden-bearded man had 
remained closed. His own little cockney steward, who 
also looked out for Gol^n Beard, reported that gen- 
tleman as requiring five meals a day, with beer in 
proportion, and the porcelain pipe steaming like ^tna 
all day long. 

His little West Indian stewardess also reported the 
gossip from her friend on another corridor, which was, 
in eflfect, that Miss White, the trained nurse, took all 
225 


THE DARK STAR 


meals in her room and had not been observed to leave 
that somewhat monotonous sanctuary. 

How many more of the band there might be Neeland 
did not know. He remembered vaguely, while lying 
rigid under the grip of the drug, that he had heard Use 
Dumont’s voice mention somebody called Karl. And 
he had an idea that this Karl might easily be the big, 
ham-fisted German who had tried so earnestly to stifle 
him and throw him from the vestibule of the midnight 
express. 

However, it did not matter now. The box was safe 
in the captain’s care; the Volhyma would be lying at 
anchor oflP Liverpool before daylight; the whole excit- 
ing and romantic business was ended. 

With an unconscious sigh, not entirely of relief, 
Neeland opened his cigarette case, found it empty, 
turned and went slowly below with the idea of refill- 
ing it. 

They were dancing somewhere on deck; the music 
of the ship’s orchestra came to his ears. He paused 
a moment on the next deck to lean on the rail in the 
darkness and listen. 

Far beneath him, through a sea as black as onyx, 
swept the reflections of the lighted ports ; and he could 
hear the faint hiss of foam from the curling flow 
below. 

As he turned to resume his quest for cigarettes, he 
was startled to see directly in front of him the heavy 
figure of a man — so close to him, in fact, that Neeland 
instinctively threw up his arm, elbow out, to avoid 
contact. 

But the man, halting, merely lifted his hat, saying 
that in the dim light he had mistaken Neeland for a 
friend; and they passed each other on the almost de- 
S26 


THE DROP OF IRISH 


serted deck, saluting formally in the .European fashion, 
with lifted hats. 

His spirits a trifle subdued, but still tingling with 
the shock of discovering a stranger so close behind him 
where he had stood leaning over the ship’s rail, Neeland 
continued on his way below. 

Probably the big man had made a mistake in good 
faith; but the man certainly had approached very 
silently ; was almost at his very elbow when discovered. 
And Neeland remembered the light-shot depths over 
which, at that moment, he had been leaning; and 
he realised that it would have been very easy for a 
man as big as that to have flung him overboard 
before he had wit to realise what had been done to 
him. 

Neither could he forget the curious gleam in the 
stranger’s eyes when a ray from a deck light fell across 
his shadowy face — unusually small eyes set a little too 
close together to inspire confidence. Nor had the man’s 
slight accent escaped him — not a Teutonic accent, he 
thought, but something fuller and softer — something 
that originated east of Scutari, suggesting the Eu- 
rasian, perhaps. 

But Neeland’s soberness was of volatile quality; be- 
fore he arrived at his stateroom he had recovered his 
gaiety of spirit. He glanced ironically at the closed 
door of Golden Beard as he fitted his key into his own 
door. 

‘‘A lively lot,” he thought to himself, “what with 
Scheherazade, Golden Beard, and now Ali Baba — by 
jinx! — he certainly did have an Oriental voice! — and 
he looked the part, too, with a beak for a nose and a 
black moustache a la Enver Pasha !” 

Much diverted by his own waxing imagination, he 


THE DARK STAR 


turned on the light in his stateroom, filled the cigarette 
case, turned to go out, and saw on the carpet just in- 
side his door a bit of white paper folded cocked-hat 
fashion and addressed to him. 

Picking it up and unfolding it, he read: 

May I see you this evening at eleven? My stateroom 
is 623. If there is anybody in the corridor, knock; if 
not, come in without knocking. 

I mean no harm to you. I give my word of honour. 
Please accept it for as much as your personal courage 
makes it worth to you — its face value, or nothing. 

Knowing you, I may say without flattery that I ex- 
pect you. If I am disappointed, I still must bear witness 
to your courage and to a generosity not characteristic of 
your sex. 

You have had both power and provocation to make my 
voyage on this ship embarrassing. You have not done 
so. And self-restraint in a man is a very deadly weapon 
to use on a woman. 

I hope you will come. I desire to be generous on my 
part. Ask yourself whether you are able to believe this. 
You don’t know women, Mr. Neeland. Your conclusion 
probably will be a wrong one. 

But I think you’ll come, all the same. And you will be 
right in coming, whatever you believe. 

Ilse Dumont. 

It was a foregone conclusion that he would go. He 
knew it before he had read half the note. And when he 
finished it he was certain. 

Amused, his curiosity excited, grateful that the ad- 
venture had not yet entirely ended, he lighted a cig- 
arette and looked impatiently at his watch. 

It lacked half an hour of the appointed time and his 
exhilaration was steadily increasing. 

He stuck the note into the frame of his mirror over 
the washstand with a vague idea that if anything hap- 

228 


THE DROP OF IRISH 


pened to him this would furnish a clue to his where- 
abouts. 

Then he thought of the steward, but, although he 
had no reason to believe the girl who had written him, 
something within him made him ashamed to notify the 
steward as to where he was going. He ought to have 
done it ; common prudence born of experience with Use 
Dumont suggested it. And yet he could not bring 
himself to do it; and exactly why, he did not under- 
stand. 

One thing, however, he could do; and he did. He 
wrote a note to Captain West giving the Paris address 
of the Princess Mistchenka, and asked that the olive- 
wood box be delivered to her in case any accident befell 
him. This note he dropped into the mailbox at the end 
of the main corridor as he went out. A few minutes 
later he stood in an empty passageway outside a door 
numbered 623. He had a loaded automatic in his breast 
pocket, a cigarette between his fingers, and, on his 
agreeable features, a smile of anticipation — a smile in 
which amusement, incredulity, reckless humour, and a 
spice of malice were blended — the smile born of the drop 
of Irish sparkling like champagne in his singing veins. 

And he turned the knob of door No. 623 and went in. 

She was reading, curled up on her sofa under the 
electric bulb, a cigarette in one hand, a box of bonbons 
beside her. 

She looked up leisurely as he entered, gave him a 
friendly nod, and, when he held out his hand, placed 
her own in it. With delighted gravity he bent and 
saluted her huger tips with lips that twitched to control 
a smile. 

“Will you be seated, please.?” she said gently. 

The softness of her agreeable voice struck him as 
229 


THE DARK STAR 


he looked around for a seat, then directly at her; and 
saw that she meant him to find a seat on the lounge 
beside her. 

‘‘Now, indeed you are Scheherazade of the Thou- 
sand and One Nights,” he said gaily, “with your cig- 
arette and your bonbons, and cross-legged on yout 
divan ” 

“Did Scheherazade smoke cigarettes, Mr. Neeland?” 

“No,” he admitted; “that is an anachronism, I sup- 
pose. Tell me, how are you, dear lady.^” 

“Thank you, quite well.” 

“And — ^busy.'^” His lips struggled again to maintain 
their gravity. 

“Yes, I have been busy.” 

“Cooking something up.^ — I mean soup, of course,” 
he added. 

She forced a smile, but reddened as though it were 
difficult for her to accustom herself to his half jesting 
sarcasms. 

“So you’ve been busy,” he resumed tormentingly, 
“but not with cooking lessons! Perhaps you’ve been 
practising with your pretty little pistol. You know 
you really need a bit of small arms practice, Schehera- 
zade.” 

“Because I once missed you.?” she inquired serenely. 

“Why so you did, didn’t you.?” he exclaimed, de- 
lighted to goad her into replying. 

“Yes,” she said, “I missed you. I needn’t have. I 
am really a dead shot, Mr. Neeland.” 

“Oh, Scheherazade!” he protested. 

She shrugged : 

“I am not bragging ; I could have killed you. I sup- 
posed it was necessary only to frighten you. It was 
my mistake and a bad one.” 

230 


THE DROP OF IRISH 


“My dear child,” he expostulated, “you meant mur- 
der and you know it. Do you suppose I believe that 
you know how to shoot?” 

“But I do, Mr. Neeland,” she returned with good- 
humoured indifference. “My father was head jager to 
Count Geier von Sturmspitz, and I was already a dead 
shot with a rifle when we emigrated to Canada. And 
when he became an Athabasca trader, and I was only 
twelve years old, I could set a moose-hide shoe-lace 
swinging and cut it in two with a revolver at thirty 
yards. And I can drive a shingle nail at that distance 
and drive the bullet that drove it, and the next and 
the next, until my revolver is empty. You don’t be- 
lieve me, do you.?” 

“You know that the beautiful Scheherazade ” 

“Was famous for her fantastic stories? Yes, I know 
that, Mr. Neeland. I’m sorry you don’t believe I fired 
only to frighten you.” 

“I’m sorry I don’t,” he admitted, laughing, “but 
I’ll practise trying, and maybe I shall attain perfect 
credulity some day. Tell me,” he added, “what have 
you been doing to amuse yourself?” 

“I’ve been amusing myself by wondering whether you 
would come here to see me tonight.” 

“But your note said you were sure I’d come.” 

“You have come, haven’t you?” 

“Yes, Scheherazade, I’m here at your bidding, spirit 
and flesh. But I forgot to bring one thing.” 

«What?” 

“The box which — you have promised yourself.” 

“Yes, the captain has it, I believe,” she returned 
serenely. 

“Oh, Lord ! Have you even found out that? I don’t 
know whether I’m much flattered by this surveillance 
231 


THE DARK STAR 


you and your friends maintain over me. I suppose you 
even know what I had for dinner. Do you.^” 

“Yes.” 

“Come, I’ll call that bluff, dear lady ! What did I 
have.?” 

When she told him, carelessly, and without humour, 
mentioning accurately every detail of his dinner, he 
lost his gaiety of countenance a little. 

“Oh, I say, you know,” he protested, “that’s going 
it a trifle too strong. Now, why the devil should your 
people keep tabs on me to that extent.?” 

She looked up directly into his eyes: 

“Mr. Neeland, I want to tell you why. I asked you 
here so that I may tell you. The people associated with 
me are absolutely pledged that neither the French 
nor the British Government shall have access to the 
contents of your box. That is why nothing that 
you do escapes our scrutiny. We are determined to 
have the papers in that box, and we shall have 
them.” 

“You have come to that determination too late,” he 
began; but she stopped him with a slight gesture of 
protest: 

“Please don’t interrupt me, Mr. Neeland.” 

“I won’t ; go on, dear lady !” 

“Then, I’m trying to tell you all I may. I am trying 
to tell you enough of the truth to make you reflect 
very seriously. 

“This is no ordinary private matter, no vulgar at- 
tempt at robbery and crime as you think — or pretend 
to think — for you are very intelligent, Mr. Neeland, 
and you know that the contrary is true. 

“This affair concerns the secret police, the embassies, 
the chancelleries, the rulers themselves of nations long 


THE DROP OF IRISH 


since grouped into two formidable alliances radically 
hostile to one another. 

“I don’t think you have understood — perhaps even 
yet you do not understand why the papers you carry 
are so important to certain governments — ^why it is 
impossible that you be permitted to deliver them to 
the Princess Mistchenka ” 

“Where did ^ou ever hear of her!'* he demanded in 
astonishment. 

The girl smiled: 

“Dear Mr. Neeland, I know the Princess Mistchenka 
better, perhaps, than you do.” 

“Do you.?” 

“Indeed I do. What do you know about her.? Noth- 
ing at all except that she is handsome, attractive, culti- 
vated, amusing, and apparently wealthy. 

“You know her as a traveller, a patroness of music 
and the fine arts — as a devotee of literature, as a grace- 
ful hostess, and an amiable friend who gives promising 
young artists letters of introduction to publishers who 
are in a position to offer them employment.” 

That this girl should know so much about the Prin- 
cess Mistchenka and about his own relations with her 
amazed Neeland. He did not pretend to account for 
it ; he did not try ; he sat silent, serious, and surprised, 
looking into the pretty and almost smiling face of a 
girl who apparently had been responsible for three 
separate attempts to kill him — perhaps even a fourth 
attempt ; and who now sat beside him talking in a soft 
and agreeable voice about matters concerning which 
he had never dreamed she had heard. 

For a few moments she sat silent, observing in his 
changing expression the effects of what she had said 
to him. Then, with a smile : 


THE DARK STAR 


‘‘Ask me whatever questions you desire to ask, Mr. 
Neeland. I shall do my best to answer them.” 

“Very well,” he said bluntly ; “how do you happen to 
know so much about me.^” 

“I know something about the friends of the Princess 
Mistchenka. I have to.” 

“Did you know who I was there in the house at 
Brookhollow.?” 

“No.” 

“When, then?” 

“When you yourself told me your name, I recog- 
nised it.” 

“I surprised you by interrupting you in Brookhol- 
low.?” 

“Yes.” 

“You expected no interruption.?” 

“None.” 

“How did you happen to go there? Where did you 
ever hear of the olive-wood box?” 

“I had advices by cable from abroad— directions 
to go to Brookhollow and secure the box.” 

“Then somebody must be watching the Princess Mis- 
tchenka.” 

“Of course,” she said simply. 

“Why ‘of course’?” 

“Mr. Neeland, the Princess Mistchenka and her 

youthful protegee. Miss Carew ” 

^^WhatUr 

The girl smiled wearily: 

“Really,” she said, “you are such a boy to be mixed 
in with matters of this colour. I think that’s the reason 
you have defeated us — the trained fencer dreads a left- 
handed novice more than any classic master of the 
foils. 


THE DROP OF IRISH 


“And that is what you have done to us — blundered — 
if you’ll forgive me — into momentary victory. 

“But such victories are only momentary, Mr. Nee- 
land. Please believe it. Please try to understand, too, 
that this is no battle with masks and plastrons and 
nicely padded buttons. No; it is no comedy, but a 
grave and serious affair that must inevitably end in 
tragedy — for somebody.” 

“For me.^” he asked without smiling. 

She turned on him abruptly and laid one hand lightly 
on his arm with a pretty gesture, at once warning, 
appealing, and protective. 

“I asked you to come here,” she said, “because — 
because I want you to escape the tragedy.” 

“You want me to^^escape?” 

“Yes.” 

“Why.?” 

“I — am sorry for you.” 

He said nothing. 

“And — I like you, Mr. Neeland.” 

The avowal in the soft, prettily modulated voice, lost 
none of its charm and surprise because the voice was a 
trifle tremulous, and the girl’s face was tinted with a 
delicate colour. 

“I like to believe what you say, Scheherazade,” he 
said pleasantly. “Somehow or other I never did think 
you hated me personally — except once ” 

She flushed, and he was silent, remembering her hu- 
miliation in the Brookhollow house. 

“I don’t know,” she said in a colder tone, “why I 
should feel at all friendly toward you, Mr. Neeland, 
except that you are personally courageous, and you 
have shown yourself generous under a severe temptation 
to be otherwise. 


235 


THE DARK STAR 


“As for — any personal hnmiliation — inflicted upon 

me ” She looked down thoughtfully and pretended 

to sort out a bonbon to her taste, while the hot colour 
cooled in her cheeks. 

“I know,” he said, “I’ve also jeered at you, jested, 
nagged you, taunted you, kiss ” He checked him- 

self and he smiled and ostentatiously lighted a cigarette. 

“Well,” he said, blowing a cloud of aromatic smoke 
toward the ceiling, “I believe that this is as strange a 
week as any man ever lived. It’s like a story book — 
like one of your wonderful stories, Scheherazade. It 
doesn’t seem real, now that it is ended ” 

“7# is not ended,^* she interrupted in a low voice. 

He smiled. 

“You know,” he said, “there’s no use trying to 
frighten such an idiot as I am.” 

She lifted her troubled eyes: 

“That is what frightens me,’’ she said. “I am afraid 
you don’t know enough to be afraid.” 

He laughed. 

“But I want you to be afraid. A really brave man 
knows what fear is. I want you to know.” 

“What do you wish me to do, Scheherazade 

“Keep away from that box.” 

“I can’t do that.” 

“Yes, you can. You can leave it in charge of the 
captain of this ship and let him see that an attempt 
is made to deliver it to the Princess Mistchenka.” 

She was in deadly earnest; he saw that. And, in 
spite of himself, a slight thrill that was almost a chill 
passed over him, checked instantly by the hot wave 
of sheer exhilaration at the hint of actual danger. 

“Oho!” he said gaily. “Then you and your friends 
are not yet finished with me.?” 

236 


THE DROP OF IRISH 


‘‘Yes, if jou will consider your mission accom- 
plished.” 

“And leave the rest to the captain of the Volhyniaf^^ 

“Yes.” 

“Scheherazade,” he said, “did you suppose me to be 
a coward?” 

“No. You have done all that you can. A reserve 
officer of the British Navy has the box in his charge. 
Let him, protected by his Government, send it toward 
its destination.” 

In her even voice the implied menace was the more 
sinister for her calmness. 

He looked at her, perplexed, and shook his head. 

“I ask you,” she went on, “to keep out of this af- 
fair — to disassociate yourself from it. I ask it be- 
cause you have been considerate and brave, and because 
I do not wish you harm.” 

He turned toward her, leaning a little forward on the 
lounge : 

“No use,” he said, smiling. “I’m in it until it 
ends ” 

“Let it end then!” said a soft, thick voice directly 
behind him. And Neeland turned and found the man 
he had seen on deck standing beside him. One of his 
fat white hands held an automatic pistol, covering him ; 
the other was carefully closing the door which he had 
noiselessly opened to admit him. 

“Karl!” exclaimed Use Dumont. 

“It is safaire that you do not stir, either, to inter- 
fere,” he said, squinting for a second at her out of his 
e3"es set too near together. 

“Karl!” she cried. “I asked him to come in order 
to persuade him! I gave him my word of honour!” 

“Did you do so? Then all the bettaire. I think we 

237 


THE DARK STAR 


shall persuade him. Do not venture to move, young 
man ; I shoot veree willingly.” 

And Neeland, looking at him along the blunt barrel 
of the automatic pistol, was inclined to believe him. 

His sensations were not agreeable; he managed to 
maintain a calm exterior; choke back the hot chagrin 
that reddened his face to the temples ; and cast a half 
humorous, half contemptuous glance at Use Dumont. 

“You prove true, don’t you.^” he said coolly. 
“ — True to your trade of story-telling, Scheherazade !” 

“I knew — nothing — of this !” she stammered. 

But Neeland only laughed disagreeably. 

Then the door opened again softly, and Golden Beard 
came in without his crutches. 


CHAPTER XXI 


METHOD AND FORESIGHT 

Without a word — with merely a careless glance at 
Neeland, who remained seated under the level threat of 
Ali Baba’s pistol, the big, handsome German removed 
his overcoat. Under it was another coat. He threw 
this off in a brisk, businesslike manner, unbuckled a 
brace of pistols, laid them aside, unwound from his 
body a long silk rope ladder which dropped to the floor 
at Use Dumont’s feet. 

The girl had turned very pale. She stooped, picked 
up the silk ladder, and, holding it in both hands, looked 
hard at Golden Beard. 

“Johann,” she said, “I gave my word of honour to 
this young man that if he came here no harm would 
happen to him.” 

“I read the note you have shoved under his door,” 
said Golden Beard. “That iss why we are here, Karl 
and I.” 

Neeland remembered the wax in the keyhole then. He 
turned his eyes on Use Dumont, curiously, less certain 
of her treachery now. 

Meanwhile, Golden Beard continued busily unwind- 
ing things from his apparently too stout person, and 
presently disengaged three life-belts. 

One of these he adjusted to his own person, then, put- 
ting on his voluminous overcoat, took the pistol from 
Ali Baba, who, in turn, adjusted one of the remaining 
life-belts to his body. 


THE DARK STAR 


Neeland, deeply perplexed and uncomfortable, 
watched these operations in silence, trying to divine 
some reason for them. 

“Now, then!” said Golden Beard to the girl; and 
his voice sounded cold and incisive in the silence. 

“This is not the way to do it,” she said in a low 
tone. “I gave him my word of honour.” 

“You will be good enough to buckle on that belt,” 
returned Golden Beard, staring at her. 

Slowly she bent over, picked up the life-belt, and, 
looping the silk rope over her arm, began to put on 
the belt. Golden Beard, impatient, presently came to 
her assistance ; then he unhooked from the wall a cloak 
and threw it over her shoulders. 

“Now, Karl!” he said. “Shoot him dead if he stirs !” 
And he snatched a sheet from the bed, tore it into 
strips, walked over to Neeland, and deftly tied him hand 
and foot and gagged him. 

Then Golden Beard and Ali Baba, between them, 
lifted the young man and seated him on the iron bed 
and tied him fast to it. 

“Go out on deck !” said Golden Beard to Use Dumont. 

“Let me stay ” 

“No! You have acted like a fool. Go to the lower 
deck where is our accustomed rendezvous.” 

“I wish to remain, Johann. I shall not interfere ” 

“Go to the lower deck, I tell you, and be ready to 
tie that rope ladder!” 

Ali Baba, down on his knees, had pulled out a steamer 
trunk from under the bed, opened it, and was lifting out 
three big steel cylinders. 

These he laid on the bed in a row beside the tied 
man; and Golden Beard, still facing Use Dumont, 
turned his head to look. 

MO 


METHOD AND FORESIGHT 


The instant his head was turned the girl snatched 
a pistol from the brace of weapons on the washstand 
and thrust it under her cloak. Neither Golden Beard 
nor Ali Baba noticed the incident ; the latter was busy 
connecting the three cylinders with coils of wire; the 
former, deeply interested, followed the operation for 
a moment or two, then walking over to the trunk, 
he lifted from it a curious little clock with two dials 
and set it on the railed shelf of glass above the wash' 
stand. 

“Karl, haf you ship’s time.?^” 

Ali Baba paused to fish out his watch, and the two 
compared timepieces. Then Golden Beard wound the 
clock, set the hands of one dial at the time indicated 
by their watches ; set the hands of the other dial at 
2:1S ; and Ali Baba, carrying a reel of copper wire 
from the bed to the washstand, fastened one end of 
it to the mechanism of the clock. 

Golden Beard turned sharply on Use Dumont: 

“I said go on deck! Did you not understand 

The girl replied steadily: 

“I understood that we had abandoned this idea fo^ 
a better one.” 

“There iss no better one!” 

“There is! Of what advantage would it be to blow 
up the captain’s cabin and the bridge when it is not 
certain that the papers will be destroyed.^” 

“Listen once !” returned Golden Beard, wagging his 
finger in her face: 

“Cabin and bridge are directly above us and there 
remains not a splinter large like a pin! I know. I 
know my bombs ! I know ” 

The soft voice of Ali Baba interrupted, and his shal- 
low, lightish eyes peered around at them : 

241 


THE DARK STAR 


“Eet ees veree excellent plan, Johann. We do not 
require these papers ; eet ees to destroy them we are 
mooch anxious” — ^he bent a deathly stare on Neeland 
— “and this yoong gentleman who may again annoy 
us.” He nodded confidently to himself and continued 
to connect the wires. “Yes, yes,” he murmured ab- 
sently, “eet ees veree good plan — veree good plan to 
blow him into leetle pieces so beeg as a pin.” 

“It is a clumsy plan!” said the girl, desperately. 
“There is no need for wanton killing like this, when we 
can ” 

“Killing?” repeated Golden Beard. “That makes 
nothing. This English captain he iss of the naval re- 
serve. JJnd this young man” — nodding coolly toward 
Neeland — “knows too much already. That iss not 
wanton killing. Also! You talk too much. Do you 
hear? We are due to drop anchor about 2:30. God 
knows there will be enough rushing to and fro at 2 :13. 

“Go on deck, I say, and fasten that rope ladder! 
Weishelm’s fishing smack will be watching; wnd if we 
do not swim for it we are caught on board ! Und that 
iss the end of it all for us!” 

“Johann,” she began tremulously, “listen to me 

*^Nein! Nein! What for a Frauenzimmer haflf we 
here !” retorted Golden Beard, losing his patience and 
catching her by the arm. “Go out und fix for us our 
ladder und keep it coiled on the rail und lean ofer ft 
like you was looking at those stars once!” 

He forced her toward the door; she turned, strug- 
gling, to confront him: 

“Then for God’s sake, give this man a chance ! Don’t 
leave him tied here to be blown to atoms ! Give him a 
chance — anything except this! Throw him out of the 
port, there!” She pointed at the closed port, evaded 


METHOB AND FORESIGHT 


Golden Beard, sprang upon the sofa, unscrewed the 
glass cover, and swung it open. 

The port was too small even to admit the passage of 
her own body; she realised it; Golden Beard laughed 
and turned to examine the result of Ali Baba’s wiring. 

For a second the girl gazed wildly around her, as 
though seeking some help in her terrible dilemma, then 
she snatched up a bit of the torn sheeting, tied it to 
the screw of the porthole cover, and flung the end out 
where it fluttered in the darkness. 

As she sprang to the floor Golden Beard swung round 
in renewed anger at her for still loitering. 

“Sacreminton !” he exclaimed. “It is time you do 
your part ! Go to your post then ! We remain here 
until five minutes is left us. Then we join you.” 

The girl nodded, turned to the door. 

“Wait! You understand the plan.^” 

“Yes.” 

“You understand that you do not go overboard until 
we arrive, no matter what happens.?” 

“Yes.” 

He stood looking at her for a moment, then with a 
shrug he went over and patted her shoulder. 

“That’s my brave girl! I also do not desire to kill 
anybody. But when the Fatherland is in danger, then 
killing signifies nothing — is of no consequence — pouf! 
—no lives are of importance then — not even our own !” 
He laughed in a fashion almost kindly and clapped her 
lightly once more on her shoulder : “Go, my child. The 
Fatherland is in danger !” 

She went, not looking back. He closed and locked 
the door behind her and oalmly turned to aid Ali Baba 
who was still fussing with the wires. Presently, how- 
ever, he mounted the bed where Neeland sat tied and 
US 


THE DARK STAR 


gagged; pulled from his pockets an auger with its bit, 
a screw-eye, and block and tackle; and, standing on 
the bed, began to bore a hole in the ceiling. 

In a few moments he had fastened the screw-eye, 
rigged his block, made a sling for his bombs out of a 
blanket, and had hoisted the three cylinders up flat 
against the ceiling from whence the connecting wires 
sagged over the foot of the bedstead to the alarm clock 
on the washstand. 

To give the clock more room on the glass shelf. All 
Baba removed the toilet accessories and set them on 
the washstand; but he had no room for a large jug 
of water, and, casting about for a place to set it, no- 
ticed a railed bracket over the head of the bed, and 
placed it there. 

Then, apparently satisfied with his labours, he sat 
down Turk fashion on the sofa, lighted a cigarette, 
selected a bonbon from the box beside him, and calmly 
regaled himself. 

Presently Golden Beard tied the cord which held up 
the sling in which the bombs were slung against the 
ceiling. He fastened it tightly to the iron frame ot 
the bed, stepped back to view the effect, then leisurely 
pulled out and filled his porcelain pipe, and seated him- 
self on the sofa beside Ali Baba. 

Neither spoke; twice Golden Beard drew his watch 
from his waistcoat pocket and compared it carefully 
with the dial of the alarm clock on the washstand shelf. 
The third time he did this he tapped Ali Baba on the 
shoulder, rose, knocked out his pipe and flung it out 
of the open port. 

Together they walked over to Neeland, examined 
the gag and ligatures as impersonally as though the 
prisoner were not there, nodded their satisfaction, 
^44 


METHOD AND FORESIGHT 


turned off the electric light, and, letting themselves out, 
looked the door on the outside. 

It lacked five minutes of the time indicated on the 
alarm diaL 


CHAPTER XXII 


TWO THIRTEEN 

To Neeland, the entire affair had seemed as though 
it were some rather obvious screen-picture at which he 
was looking — some photo-play too crudely staged, and 
in which he himeslf was no more concerned than any 
casual spectator. 

Until now, Neeland had not been scared; Ali Baba 
and his automatic pistol were only part of this un- 
reality; his appearance on the scene had been fan- 
tastically classical; he entered when his cue was given 
by Scheherazade — this oily, hawk-nosed Eurasian with 
his pale eyes set too closely and his moustache hiding 
under his nose a la Enver Pasha^ — a faultless make-up, 
an entry properly timed and prepared. And then, al- 
ways well-timed for dramatic effect. Golden Beard had 
appeared. Everything was en regle^ every unity nicely 
preserved. Scheherazade had protested; and her pro- 
test sounded genuine. Also entirely convincing was the 
binding and gagging of himself at the point of an auto- 
matic pistol ; and, as for the rest of the business, it was 
practically all action and little dialogue — an achieve- 
ment really in these days of dissertation. 

All, as he looked on at it over the bandage which 
closed his mouth, had seemed unreal, impersonal, even 
when his forced attitude had caused him inconvenience 
and finally pain. 

But now, with the light extinguished and the closing 
of the door behind Golden Beard and Ali Baba, he ex- 
246 


TWO THIRTEEN 


perienced a shock which began to awaken him to the 
almost incredible and instant reality of things. 

It actually began to look as though these story-book 
conspirators — these hirelings of a foreign government 
who had not been convincing because they were too ob- 
vious, too well done — actually intended to expose him 
to serious injury. 

In spite of their sinister intentions in regard to him, 
in spite of their attempts to harm him, he had not, 
so far, been able to take them seriously or even to 
reconcile them and their behaviour with the common- 
places of the twentieth century in which he lived. 

But now, in the darkness, with the clock on the wash- 
stand shelf ticking steadily, he began to take the matter 
very seriously. The gag in his mouth hurt him cruelly ; 
the bands of linen that held it in began to stifle him so 
that his breath came in quick gasps through his nostrils ; 
sweat started at the roots of his hair ; his heart leaped, 
beat madly, stood still, and leaped again ; and he threw 
himself against the strips that held him and twisted and 
writhed with all his strength. 

Suddenly fear pierced him like a poignard; for a 
moment panic seized him and chaos reigned in his 
bursting brain. He swayed and strained convulsively ; 
he strove to hurl all the inward and inert reserve of 
strength against the bonds that held him. 

After what seemed an age of terrible effort he found 
himself breathing fast and heavily as though his lungs 
would burst through his straining, dilating nostrils, 
seated exactly as he had been without a band loosened, 
and the icy sweat pouring over his twitching face. 

He heard himself trying to shout — ^heard the im- 
prisoned groan shattered in his own throat, dying there 
within him. 


247 


THE BARK STAR 


Suddenly a key rattled ; the door was torn open ; the 
light switched on. Golden Beard stood there, his blue 
eyes glaring furious inquiry. He gave one glance 
around the room, caught sight of the clock, recoiled, 
shut off the light again, and slammed and locked the 
door. 

But in that instant Neeland’s starting eyes had seen 
the clock. The fixed hands on one of the dials still 
pointed to 2:13; the moving hands on the other lacked 
three minutes of that hour. 

And, seated there in the pitch darkness, he suddenly 
realised that he had only three minutes more of life on 
earth. 

All panic was gone; his mind was quite clear. He 
heard every tick of the clock and knew what each one 
meant. 

Also he heard a sudden sound across the room, as 
though outside the port something was rustling against 
the ship’s side. 

Suddenly there came a click and the room sprang 
into full light; an arm, entering the open port from 
the darkness outside, let go the electric button, was 
withdrawn, only to reappear immediately clutching an 
automatic pistol. And the next instant the arm and 
the head of Use Dumont were thrust through the port 
into the room. 

Her face was pale as death as her eyes fell on the 
dial of the clock. With a gasp she stretched out her 
arm and fired straight at the clock, shattering both 
dials and knocking the timepiece into the washbasin 
below. 

For a moment she struggled to force her other shoul- 
der and her body through the port, but it was too 
narrow. Then she called across to the bound figure 
248 


TWO THIRTEEN 


seated on the bed and staring at her with ejes that 
fairly started from their sockets: 

‘‘Mr. Neeland, can’t you move? Try! Try to break 
loose ” 

Her voice died away in a whisper as a flash of bluish 
flame broke out close to the ceiling overhead, where the 
three bombs were slung. 

“Oh, God !” she faltered. “The fuses are afire !” 

For an instant her brain reeled; she instinctively re- 
coiled as though to fling herself out into the darkness. 
Then, in a second, her extended arm grew rigid, slanted 
upward ; the pistol exploded once, twice, the third time ; 
the lighted bombs in their sling, released by the severed 
rope, fell to the bed, the fuses sputtering and fizzling. 

Instantly the girl fired again at the big jug of water 
on the bracket over the head of the bed; a deluge 
drenched the bed underneath; two fuses were out; one 
still snapped and glimmered and sent up little jets and 
rings of vapour ; but as the water soaked into the match 
the cinder slowly died until the last spark fell from 
the charred wet end and went out on the drenched 
blanket. 

She waited a little longer, then with an indescribable 
look at the helpless man below, she withdrew her head, 
pushed herself free, hung to the invisible rope ladder 
for a moment, swaying against the open port. His eyes 
were fastened on her where she dangled there against 
the darkness betwixt sky and sea, oscillating with the 
movement of the ship, her pendant figure now gilded by 
the light from the room, now phantom dim as she swung 
outward. 

As the roll of the ship brought her head to the level 
of the port once more, she held up her pistol, shook it, 
and laughed at him: 


m9 


THE DARK STAB 


“Now do you believe that I can shoot?” she called 
out. “Answer me some time when that mocking tongue 
of yours is free!” 

Then, climbing slowly upward into darkness, the 
light, falling now across her body, now athwart her 
skirt, gilded at last the heels of her shoes ; suddenly she 
was gone; then stars glittered through the meshes of 
the shadowy, twitching ladder which still barred the 
open port. And finally the ladder was pulled upward 
out of sight. 

He waited. After a little while — an interminable 
interval to him — he heard somebody stealthily trying 
the handle of the door ; then came a pause, silence, fol- 
lowed by a metallic noise as though the lock were being 
explored or picked. 

For a while the scraping, metallic sounds continued 
steadily, then abruptly ceased as though the unseen 
meddler had been interrupted. 

A voice — evidently the voice of the lock-picker — 
pitched to a cautious key, was heard in protest as 
though objecting to some intentions evident in the 
new arrival. Whispered expostulations continued for 
a while, then the voices beoame quarrelsome and 
louder; and somebody suddenly rapped on the door. 

Then a thick, soft voice that he recognised with a 
chill, grew angrily audible: 

“I say to you, steward, that I forbid you to entaire 
that room. I forbid you to disturb thees yoong lady. 
Do you know who I am?” 

“I don’t care who you are ” 

“I have authority. I shall employ it. You shall lose 
your berth! Thees yoong lady within thees room ees 
my fiancee ! I forbid you to enter forcibly ” 

“Haven’t I knocked? Wot’s spilin’ you? I am do- 

250 


TWO THIRTEEN 


ing my duty. Back away from this ’ere door, I tell 
you !” 

“You spik thees-a-way, so impolite ” 

“Get out o’ my way! Blime d’you think I’ll stand 
’ere jawin’ any longer?” 

“I am membaire of Parliament ” 

And the defiant voice of Jim’s own little cockney 
steward retorted, interrupting: 

“Ahr, stow it! Don’t I tell you as how a lydy tele- 
phones me just now that my young gentleman is in 
there? Get away from that door, you blighter, or I’ll 
bash yoter beak in!” 

The door trembled under a sudden and terrific kick; 
the wordy quarrel ceased ; hurried steps retreated along 
the corridor; a pass key rattled in the lock, and the 
door was flung wide open: 

“Mr. Neeland, sir — oh, my Gawd, wot ever ’ave they 
gone and done, sir, to find you ’ere in such a ’orrid 
state !” 

But the little cockney lost no time; fingers and pen- 
knife flew; Neeland, his arms free, tore the bandage 
from his mouth and spat out the wad of cloth. 

“I’ll do the rest,” he gasped, forcing the words from 
his bruised and distorted lips ; “follow that man who 
was outside talking to you ! Find him if you can. He 
had been planning to blow up this ship !” 
man, sir !’' 

“Yes! Did you know him?” 

“Yes, sir; but I darsn’t let on to him I knew him — 
what with ’earing that you was in here—” 

“You did know him?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Who is he?” 

“Mr. Neeland, sir, that there cove is wot he say* 

251 


THE DARK STAR 


he is, a member of Parliament, and his name is Wil- 
son ” 

‘‘You’re mad! He’s an Eurasian, a spy; his name 
is Karl Breslau — I heard it from the others — and he 
tried to blow up the captain’s cabin and the bridge with 
those three bombs lying there on the bed !” 

“My God, sir — what you tell me may be so, but what 
I say is true, sir; that gentleman you heard talking 
outside the door to me is Charles Wilson, member of 
Parliament, representing Glebe and Wotherness; and 
I knew it w’en I ’anded ’im the ’ot stuff! — ’strewth I 
did, sir — and took my chance you’d ’elp me out if I 
got in too rotten with the company !” 

Neeland said: 

“Certainly you may count on me. You’re a brick!” 
He continued to rub and slap and pinch his arms and 
legs to restore the circulation, and finally ventured to 
rise to his shaky feet. The steward offered an arm; 
together they hobbled to the door, summoned another 
steward, placed him in charge of the room, and went 
on in quest of Captain West, to whom an immediate 
report was now imperative. 


CHAPTER XXin 


ON HIS WAY 

The sun hung well above the river mists and threw 
long, cherry-red beams across the choppy channel where 
clotted jets of steam and smoke from tug and steamer 
drifted with the fog; and still the captain of the VoU 
hynia and young Neeland sat together in low-voiced 
conference in the captain’s cabin ; and a sailor, armed 
with cutlass and pistol, stood outside the locked and 
bolted door. 

Off the port bow, Liverpool spread as far as the eye 
could see through the shredded fog; to starboard, off 
Birkenhead, through a haze of pearl and lavender, the 
tall phantom of an old-time battleship loomed. She 
was probably one of Nelson’s ships, now only an appa- 
rition; but to Neeland, as he caught sight of her dimly 
revealed, still dominating the water, the old ship seemed 
like a menacing ghost, never to be laid until the sceptre 
of sea power fell from an enervated empire and. the 
glory of Great Britain departed for all time. And in 
his Yankee heart he hoped devoutly that such disaster 
to the world might never come upon it. 

Few passengers were yet astir; the tender had not 
yet come alongside; the monstrous city beyond had 
not awakened. 

But a boat manned by Liverpool police lay off the 
Volhyma^s port; Neeland’s steamer trunk was already 
in it; and now the captain accompanied him to the 
ladder, where a sailor took his suitcase and the olive- 
253 


THE DARK STAR 


wood box and ran down the landing stairs like a monkey. 

“Good luck,” said the captain of the Volhynia, “And 
keep it in your mind every minute that those two men 
and that woman probably are at this moment aboard 
some German fishing craft, and headed for France, 

“Remember, too, that they are merely units in a vast 
system; that they are certain to communicate with 
other units; that between you and Paris are people 
who will be notified to watch for you, follow you, rob 
you.” 

Neeland nodded thoughtfully. 

The captain said again: 

“Good luck ! I wish you were free to turn over that 
box to us. But if you’ve given your word to deliver it 
in person, the whole matter involves, naturally, a point 
of honour.” 

“Yes. I have no discretion in the matter, you see.’^ 
He laughed. “You’re thinking. Captain West, that I 
haven’t much discretion anyway.” 

“I don’t think you have very much,” admitted the 
captain, smiling and shaking the hand which Neeland 
offered. “Well, this is merely one symptom of a very 
serious business, Mr. Neeland. That an attempt should 
actually have been made to murder you and to blow 
me to pieces in my cabin is a slight indication of what 
a cataclysmic explosion may shatter the peace of the 
entire world at any moment now. . . . Good-bye. And 
I warn you very solemnly to take this aflPair as a deadly 
serious one and not as a lark.” 

They exchanged a firm clasp ; then Neeland descended 
and entered the boat ; the Inspector of Police took the 
tiller ; the policemen bent to the oars, and the boat shot 
away through a mist which was turning to a golden 
vapour. 

^4 


ON HIS WAY 


It was within a few boat-lengths of the landing stairs 
that Neeland, turning for a last look into the steaming 
golden glory behind him, saw the most splendid sight 
of his life. And that sight was the British Empire 
assuming sovereignty. 

For there, before his eyes, militant, magnificent, the 
British fleet was taking the sea, gliding out to accept 
its fealty, moving majestically in mass after mass of 
steel under flowing torrents of smoke, with the phantom 
battle flags whipping aloft in the blinding smother of 
mist and sun and the fawning cut-water hurrying too, 
as though even every littlest wave were mobilised and 
hastening seaward in the service of its mistress. Ruler 
of all Waters, untroubled by a man-made Kiel. 

And now there was no more time to be lost; no more 
stops until he arrived in Paris. A taxicab rushed him 
and his luggage across the almost empty city ; a train, 
hours earlier than the regular steamer train, carried 
him to London where, as he drove through the crowded, 
sunlit streets, in a hansom cab, he could see news- 
venders holding up strips of paper on which was printed 
in great, black letters: 

THE BRITISH FLEET SAILS 

SPY IN THE HOUSE OP COMMONS 

CHAEXES WILSON, M.P., ACCUSED 

MISSING MEMBER SUPPOSED TO BE KARL BRESLAU, 
INTERNATIONAL SPY 

And he noticed knots of people pausing to buy the 
latest editions of the papers offered. 

But Neeland had no time to see much more of Lon- 
don than that — glimpses of stately grey buildings and 
255 


THE DARK STAR 


green trees ; of monuments and palaces where soldiers 
in red tunics stood guard; the crush of traffic in the 
city; trim, efficient police, their helmets strapped to 
their heads, disentangling the streams of vehicles, halt- 
ing, directing everything with calm and undisturbed 
precision; a squadron of cavalry in brilliant uniforms 
leisurely emerging from some park between iron rail- 
ings under stately trees ; then the crowded confusion 
of a railroad station, but not the usual incidents of 
booking and departure, because he was to travel by a 
fast goods train under telegraphed authority of the 
British Government. 

And that is about all that Neeland saw of the might- 
iest city in the world on the eve of the greatest conflict 
among the human races that the earth has ever wit- 
nessed, or ever shall, D. V. 

The fljung goods train that took him to the Channel 
port whence a freight packet was departing, offered 
him the luxury of a leather padded armchair in a 
sealed and grated mail van. 

Nobody disturbed him; nobody questioned him ; the 
train officials were civil and incurious, and went calmly 
about their business with all the traditional stolidity 
of official John Bull. 

Neeland had plenty of leisure to think as he sat there 
in his heavy chair which vibrated but did not sway very 
much ; and his mind was fully occupied with his reflec- 
tions, for, so far, he had not had time to catalogue, 
index, and arrange them in proper order, so rapid and 
so startling had been the sequence of events since he 
had left his studio in New York for Paris, via Brook- 
hollow, London, and other points east. 

One thing in particular continued to perplex and 
astonish him: the identity of a member of Parliament, 
256 


ON HIS WAY 


known as Charles Wilson, suddenly revealed as Karl 
Breslau, an international spy. 

The wildest flight of fancy of an irresponsible nov- 
elist had never created such a character in penny-dread- 
ful fiction. It remained incomprehensible, almost in- 
credible to Neeland that such a thing could be true. 

Also, the young man had plenty of food for reflec- 
tion, if not for luncheon, in trying to imagine exactly 
how Golden Beard and Ali Baba, and that strange, 
illogical young girl. Use Dumont, had escaped from 
the Volhynia. 

Probably, in the darkness, the fishing boat which 
they expected had signalled in some way or other. No 
doubt the precious trio had taken to the water in their 
life-jackets and had been picked up even before armed 
sailors on the Volhyma descended to their empty state- 
rooms and took possession of what luggage could be 
discovered, and of the three bombs with their charred 
wicks still soaking on the sopping bed. 

And now the affair had finally ended, Neeland be- 
lieved, in spite of Captain West’s warnings. For how 
could three industrious conspirators in a fishing smack 
off the Lizard do him any further damage 

If they had managed to relay information concern- 
ing him to their friends ashore by some set of precon- 
certed signals, possibly the regular steamer train to and 
out of London might be watched. 

Thinking of this, it presently occurred to Neeland 
that friends in France, also, might be stirred up in time 
to offer him their marked attentions. This, no doubt, 
was what Captain West meant ; and Neeland considered 
the possibility as the flying train whirled him toward 
the Channel. 

He asked if he might smoke, and was informed that 

257 


THE DARK STAR 


he might ; and he lighted a cigarette and stretched out 
on his chair, a little hungry from lack of luncheon, a 
trifle tired from lack of sleep, but, in virtue of his vig- 
orous and youthful years, comfortable, contented, and 
happy. 

Never, he admitted, had he had such a good time in 
all his life, despite the fact that chance alone, and not 
his own skill and alertness and perspicacity, had saved 
his neck. 

No, he could not congratulate himself on his clever- 
ness and wisdom; sheer accident had saved his skin — 
and once the complex and unaccountable vagary of a 
feminine mind had saved him from annihilation so utter 
that it slightly sickened him to remember his position 
in Use Dumont’s stateroom as she lifted her pistol and 
coolly made good her boast as a dead-shot. But he 
forced himself to take it lightly. 

“Good Lord!” he thought to himself. “Was ever a 
man in such a hellish position, except in melodrama? 
And what a movie that would have made! And what 
a shot that girl proved herself to be! Certainly she 
could have killed me there at Brookhollow ! She could 
have riddled me before I ducked, even with that nickel- 
plated affair about which I was ass enough to taunt 
her!” 

Lying in his chair, cheek on arm, he continued to 
ponder on what had happened, until the monotonous 
vibration no longer interfered with his inclination for 
a nap. On the contrary, the slight, rhythmic jolting 
soothed him and gradually induced slumber; and he 
slept there on the rushing train, his feet crossed and 
resting on the olive-wood box. 

A hand on his arm aroused him ; the sea wind blowing 

258 


ON HIS WAY 


through the open doors of the mail-van dashed in his 
face like a splash of cool water as he sat up and looked 
around him. 

As he descended from the van an officer of the freight 
packet greeted him by name ; a sailor piled his luggage 
on a barrow; and Neeland walked through the vista of 
covered docks to the pier. 

There was a lively wind whipping that notoriously 
bad-mannered streak of water known as the English 
Channel. Possibly, had it been christened the French 
Channel its manners might have been more polite. But 
there was now nothing visible about it to justify its sen- 
timental pseudonym of Silver Streak. 

It was a dirty colour, ominous of ill-temper beyond 
the great breakwater to the northward; and it fretted 
and fumed inshore and made white and ghastly faces 
from the open sea. 

But Neeland, dining from a tray in a portholed pit 
consecrated to the use of a casual supercargo, rejoiced 
because he adored the sea, inland lubber that he had 
been born and where the tides of fate had stranded him. 
For, to a New Yorker, the sea seems far away — as far 
as it seems to the Parisian. And only when chance 
business takes him to the Battery does a New Yorker 
realise the nearness of the ocean to that vast volume of 
ceaseless dissonance called New York. 

Neeland ate cold meat and bread and cheese, and 
washed it down with bitters. 

He was nearly asleep on his sofa when the packet 
cast off. 

He was sound asleep when, somewhere in the rag- 
ing darkness of the Channel, he was hurled from the 
sofa against the bunk opposite — into which he pres- 
259 


THE DARK STAR 


ently crawled and lay, still half asleep, mechanically 
rubbing a maltreated shin. 

Twice more the bad-mannered British Channel was 
violently rude to him; each time he crawled back to 
stick like a limpet in the depths of his bunk. 

Except when the Channel was too discourteous, he 
slept as a sea bird sleeps afloat, tossing outside thun- 
dering combers which batter basalt rocks. 

Even in his deep, refreshing sea sleep, the subtle sense 
of exhilaration — of well-being — which contact with the 
sea always brought to him, possessed him. And, deep 
within him, the drop of Irish seethed and purred as a 
kettle purrs through the watches of the night over a 
banked but steady fire. 


CHAPTER XXIV 


THE ROAD TO PARIS 

Over the drenched sea wall gulls whirled and eddied 
above the spouting spray; the grey breakwater was 
smothered under exploding combers ; qtiaiy docks, white- 
washed lighthouse, swept with spindrift, appeared and 
disappeared through the stormy obscurity as the ten- 
der from the Channel packet fought its way shoreward 
with Neeland’s luggage lashed in the cabin, and 
Neeland himself sticking to the deck like a fly to a 
frantic mustang, enchanted with the whole busi- 
ness. 

For the sea, at last, was satisfying this young man ; 
he savoured now what he had longed for as a little boy, 
guiding a home-made raft on the waters of Neeland’s 
mill pond in the teeth of a summer breeze. Before he 
had ever seen the ocean he wanted all it had to give 
short of shipwreck and early decease. He had experi- 
enced it on the Channel during the night. 

There was only one other passenger aboard — a tall, 
lean, immaculately dressed man with a ghastly pallor, 
a fox face, and ratty eyes, who looked like an Ameri- 
can and who had been dreadfully sick. Not caring for 
his appearance, Neeland did not speak to him. Besides, 
he was having too good a time to pay attention to any- 
body or anything except the sea. 

A sailor had lent Neeland some oilskins £gid a sou’- 
wester ; and he hated to put them off — hated the calmer 
waters inside the basin where the tender now lay rock- 
261 


THE DARK STAR 


ing ; longed for the gale and the heavy seas again, sorry 
the crossing was ended. 

He cast a last glance of regret at the white fury 
raging beyond the breakwater as he disembarked among 
a crowd of porters, gendarmes, soldiers, and assorted 
officials ; then, following his porter to the customs, he 
prepared to submit to the unvarying indignities inci- 
dent to luggage examination in France. 

He had leisure, while awaiting his turn, to buy a 
novel, ‘‘Les Bizarettes,” of Maurice Bertrand; time, 
also, to telegraph to the Princess Mistchenka. The 
fox-faced man, who looked like an American, was now 
speaking French like one to a perplexed official, inquir- 
ing where the Paris train was to be found. Neeland 
listened to the fluent information on his own account, 
then returned to the customs bench. 

But the unusually minute search among his effects 
did not trouble him; the papers from the olive-wood 
box were buttoned in his breast pocket; and after a 
while the customs officials let him go to the train which 
stood beside an uncovered concrete platform beyond 
the quai, and toward which the fox-faced American 
had preceded him on legs that still wabbled with sea- 
sickness. 

There were no Pullmans attached to the train, only 
the usual first, second, and third class carriages with 
compartments ; and a new style corridor car with cen- 
tral aisle and lettered doors to compartments holding 
four. 

Into one of these compartments Neeland stepped, 
hoping for seclusion, but backed out again, the place 
being full of artillery officers playing cards. 

In vain he bribed the guard, who offered to do his 
best; but the human contents of a Channel passenger 
262 


THE ROAD TO PARIS 


steamer had unwillingly spent the night in the quaint 
French port, and the Paris-bound train was already 
full. 

The best Neeland could do was to find a seat in a 
compartment where he interrupted conversation be- 
tween three men who turned sullen heads to look at 
him, resenting in silence the intrusion. One of them 
was the fox-faced man he had already noticed on the 
packet, tender, and customs dock. 

But Neeland, whose sojourn in a raw and mannerless 
metropolis had not blotted out all memory of gentler 
cosmopolitan conventions, lifted his hat and smilingly 
excused his intrusion in the fluent and agreeable French 
of student days, before he noticed that he had to do 
with men of his own race. 

None of the men returned his salute; one. of them 
merely emitted an irritated grunt; and Neeland recog- 
nised that they all must be his own delightful country- 
men — for even the British are more dignified in their 
stolidity. 

A second glance satisfied him that all three were un- 
doubtedly Americans; the cut of their straw hats and 
apparel distinguished them as such ; the nameless grace 
of Mart, HafFner and Sharx marked the tailoring of 
the three ; only Honest Werner could have manufac- 
tured such headgear; only New York such foot- 
wear. 

And Neeland looked at them once more and under- 
stood that Broadway itself sat there in front of him, 
pasty, close-shaven, furtive, sullen-eyed, the New York 
Paris Herald in its seal-ringed fingers ; its fancy waist- 
coat pockets bulging with cigars. 

“Sports,” he thought to himself; and decided to 
maintain incognito and pass as a Frenchman, if neces- 


THE DARK STAR 


sary, to escape conversation with the three tired-eyed 
ones. 

So he hung up his hat, opened his novel, and settled 
back to endure the trip through the rain, now begin- 
ning to fall from a low-sagging cloud of watery 
grey. 

After a few minutes the train moved. Later the 
guard passed and accomplished his duties. Neeland 
inquired politely of him in French whether there was 
any political news, and the guard replied politely that 
he knew of none. But he looked very serious when he 
said it. 

Half an hour from the coast the rain dwindled to a 
rainbow and ceased; and presently a hot sun was gild- 
ing wet green fields and hedges and glistening roofs 
which steamed vapour from every wet tile. 

Without asking anybody’s opinion, one of the men 
opposite raised the window. ' But Neeland did not ob- 
ject; the rain- washed air was deliciously fragrant; and 
he leaned his elbow on his chair arm and looked out 
across the loveliest land in Europe. 

“Say, friend,” said an East Side voice at his elbow, 
“does smoking go?” 

He glanced back over his shoulder at the speaker — 
a little, pallid, sour-faced man with the features of a 
sick circus clown and eyes like two holes burnt in a 
lump of dough. 

“Pardo w, monsieur he said politely. 

“Can’t you even pick a Frenchman, Ben?” sneered 
one of the men opposite — a square, smoothly shaven 
man with slow, heavy-lidded eyes of a greenish tinge. 

The fox-faced man said: 

“He had me fooled, too, Eddie. If Ben Stull didnT 
get his number it don’t surprise me none, becuz he was 
S64 


THE EOAD TO PARIS 


on the damn boat I crossed in, and I certainly picked 
him for New York.” 

‘‘Aw,” said the pasty-faced little man referred to as 
Ben Stull, “Eddie knows it all. He never makes no 
breaks, of course. You make ’em. Doc, but he doesn’t. 
That’s why me and him and you is travelling here — 
this minute — because the great Eddie Brandes never 
makes no breaks ” 

“Go on and smoke and shut up,” said Brandes, with 
a slow, sidewise glance at Neeland, whose eyes remained 
fastened on the pages of “Les Bizarettes,” but whose 
ears were now very wide open. 

“Smoke,” repeated Stull, “when this here Frenchman 
may make a holler.'^” 

“Wait till I ask him,” said the man addressed as 
Doc, with dignity. And to Neeland: 

Par dong, mwsseer, permitty vous moi de fumy wng 
cigarV' 

*^Mais comment, done, monsieur! Je vous en 
prie ” 

“He says politely,” translated Doc, “that we can 
smoke and be damned to us.” 

They lighted three obese cigars ; Neeland, his eyes on 
his page, listened attentively and stole a glance at the 
man they called Brandes. 

So this was the scoundrel who had attempted to de- 
ceive the young girl who had come to him that night in 
his studio, bewildered with what she believed to be her 
hopeless disgrace! 

This was the man — this short, square, round-faced 
individual with his minutely shaven face and slow green- 
ish eyes, and his hair combed back and still reeking with 
perfumed tonic — this shiny, scented, and overgroomed 
sport with rings on his fat, blunt fingers and the silk 
265 


THE DARK STAR 


laces on his tan oxfords as fastidiously tied as though 
a valet had done it ! 

Ben Stull began to speak; and presently Neeland 
discovered that the fox-faced man’s name was Doc Cur- 
foot; that he had just arrived from London on receipt 
of a telegram from them; and that they themselves 
had landed the night before from a transatlantic liner 
to await him here. 

Doc Curfoot checked the conversation, which was 
becoming general now, saying that they’d better be very 
sure that the man opposite understood no English be- 
fore they became careless. 

^^Miisseer,^^ he added suavely to Neeland, who looked 
up with a polite smile, **parly voo Anglayr* 
parle Frangais, monsieur'^ 

‘‘I get him,” said Stull, sourly. “I knew it anyway. 
He’s got the sissy manners of a Frenchy, even if he 
don’t look the part. No white man tips his lid to no- 
body except a swell skirt.” 

“I seen two dudes do it to each other on Fifth 
Avenue,” remarked Curfoot, and spat from the win- 
dow. 

Brandes, imperturbable, rolled his cigar into the cor- 
ner of his mouth and screwed his greenish eyes to nar- 
row slits. 

“You got our wire. Doc?” 

“Why am I here if I didn’t!” 

“Sure. Have an easy passage?” 

Doc Curfoot’s foxy visage still wore traces of the 
greenish pallor; he looked pityingly at Brandes — self- 
pityingly : 

“Say, Eddie, that was the worst I ever seen. A 
freight boat, too. God ! I was that sick I hoped she’d 
turn turtle ! And nab it from me ; if you hadn’t wired 
266 


THE ROAD TO PARIS 


me S O S, I’d have waited over for the steamer train 
and the regular boat !” 

‘‘Well, it’s S O S all right, Doc. I got a cable 
from Quint this morning saying our place in Paris is 
ready, and we’re to be there and open up tonight ” 

**W}iat place?” demanded Curfoot. 

“Sure, I forgot. You don’t know anything yet, do 
you?” 

“Eddie,” interrupted Stull, “let me do the talking 
this time, if you please.” 

And, to Curfoot: 

“Listen, Doc. We was up against it. You heard. 
Every little thing has went wrong since Eddie done 
what he done — every damn thing! Look what’s hap- 
pened since Maxy Venem got sore and he and Minna 
started out to get him! Morris Stein takes away the 
Silhouette Theatre from us and we can’t get no time 
for ‘Lilith’ on Broadway. We go on the road and bust. 
All our Saratoga winnings goes, also what we got in- 
vested with Parson Smawley when the bulls pulled 
Quint’s !” 

“Ah, f’r the lov’ o’ Mike!” began Brandes. “Can 
that stuff!” 

“All right, Eddie. I’m tellin’ Doc, that’s all. I ain’t 
aiming to be no crape-hanger ; I only want you both to 
listen to me this time. If youd listened to me before, 
we’d have been in Saratoga today in our own machines. 
But no; you done what you done — God! Did anyone 
ever hear of such a thing! — taking chances with that 
little rube from Brookhollow — that freckled-faced mill- 
hand — that yap-skirt! And Minna and Max having 
you watched all the time! You big boob! No — don’t 
interrupt! Listen to Tne! Where are you now? You 
had good money; you had a theaytre, you had backing! 
267 


THE HARK STAR 


Quint was doing elegant ; Doc and Parson and you and 
me had it all our way and cornin’ faster every day. 
Wait, I tell you! This ain’t a autopsy. This is busi- 
ness. Pm tellin’ you two guys all this becuz I want you 
to realise that what Eddie done was against my advice. 
Come on, now; wasn’t it?” 

“It sure was,” admitted Curfoot, removing his cigar 
from his lean, pointed visage of a greyhound, and 
squinting thoughtfully at the smoke eddying in the 
draught from the open window. 

“Am I right, Eddie?” demanded Stull, fixing his 
black, smeary eyes on Brandes. 

“Well, go on,” returned the latter between thin lips 
that scarcely moved. 

“All right, then. Here’s the situation. Doc. We’re 
broke. If Quint hadn’t staked us to this here new game 
we’re playin’, where’d we be, I ask you? 

“We got no income now. Quint’s is shut up ; Maxy 
Venem and Minna Minti fixed us at Saratoga so we 
can’t go back there for a while. They won’t let us 
touch a card on the liners. Every pug is leery of as 
since Eddie flimflammed that Battling Smoke; and I 
told you he’d holler, too ! Didn’t I ?” turning on 
Brandes, who merely let his slow eyes rest on him 
without replying. 

“Go on, Ben,” said Curfoot. 

“I’m going on. We guys gotta do something ” 

“We ought to have fixed Max Venem,” said Curfoot 
coolly. 

There was a silence ; all three men glanced stealthily 
at Neeland, who quietly turned the page of his book as 
though absorbed in his story. 

“That squealer, Max,” continued Curfoot with pla- 
cid ferocity blazing in his eyes, “ought to have been put 
268 


THE ROAD TO PARIS 


awaj. Quint and Parson wanted us to have it done. 
Was it any stunt to get that, dirty little shyster in 
sonie roadhouse last May.'^” 

Brandes said: 

“I’m not mixing with any gunmen after the Rosen- 
thal business.” 

“Becuz a lot of squealers done a amateur job like 
that, does it say that a honest job can’t be pulled.^” 
demanded Curfoot. “Did Quint and me ask you to go 
to Dopey or Clabber or Pete the Wop, or any of them 
cheap gangsters.?” 

“Ah, can the gun-stufF,” said Brandes. “I’m not for 
it. It’s punk.” 

“What’s punk.?” 

“Gun-play.” 

“Didn’t you pull a pop on Maxy Venem the night 
' him and Hyman Adams and Minna beat you up in front 
of the Knickerbocker.?” 

“Eddie was stalling,” interrupted Stull, as Brandes’ 
face turned a dull beef-red. “You talk like a bad actor. 
Doc. There’s other ways of getting Max in wrong. 
Guns ain’t what they was once. Gun-play is old stuff. 
But listen, now. Quint has staked us and we gotta 
make good. And this is a big thing, though it looks 
like it was out of our line.” 

“Go on; what’s the idea.?” inquired Curfoot, inter- 
ested. 

Brandes, the dull red still staining his heavy face, 
watched the flying landscape from the open window. 

Stull leaned forward; Curfoot bent his lean, narrow 
head nearer ; Neeland, staring fixedly at his open book, 
pricked up his ears. 

“Now,” said Stull in a low voice, “I’ll tell you guys 
all Eddie and I know about this here business of Cap- 
269 


THE DARK STAR 


tain Quint’s. It’s like this, Doc : Some big feller comes 
to Quint after they close him up — he won’t tell who — 
and puts up this here proposition: Quint is to open a 
elegant place in Paris on the Q. T. In fact, it’s ready 
now. There’ll be all the backing Quint needs. He’s 
to send over three men he can trust — three men who 
can shoot at a pinch ! He picks us three and stakes us. 
Get me.f*” 

Doc nodded. 

Brandes said in his narrow-eyed, sleepy way: 

‘‘There was a time when they called us gunmen — 
Ben and me. But, so help me God, Doc, we never did 
any work like that ourselves. We never fired a shot to 
croak any living guy. Did we, Ben.?^” 

“All right,” said Stull impatiently. And, to Cur- 
foot : “Eddie and I know what we’re to do. If it’s on 
the cards that we shoot— well, then, we’ll shoot. The 
place is to be small, select, private, and first class. Doc, 
you act as capper. You deal, too. Eddie sets ’em up. 
I deal or spin. All right. We three guys attend to 
anything American that blows our way. Get that?” 

Curfoot nodded. 

“Then for the foreigners, there’s to be a guy called 
Karl Breslau.” 

Neeland managed to repress a start, but the blood 
tingled in his cheeks, and he turned his head a trifle as 
though seeking better light on the open pages in his 
hands. 

“This here man Breslau,” continued Stull, “speaks 
all kinds of languages. He is to have two friends with 
him, a fellow named Kestner and one called Weishelm. 
They trim the foreigners, they do ; and ” 

“Well, I don’t see nothing new about this began 

Curfoot; but Stull interrupted: 

270 


THE ROAD TO PARIS 


“Wait, can’t you! This ain’t the usual. We run a 
place for Quint. The place is like Quint’s. We trim 
guys same as he does — or did. But there's more to it.'' 

He let his eyes rest on Neeland, obliquely, for a full 
minute. The others watched him, too. Presently the 
young man cut another page of his book with his pen- 
knife and turned it with eager impatience, as though 
the story absorbed him. 

“Don’t worry about Frenchy,” murmured Brandes 
with a shrug. “Go ahead, Ben.” 

Stull laid one hand on Curfoot’s shoulder, drawing 
that gentleman a trifle nearer and sinking his voice : 

“Here’s the new stuff. Doc,” he said. “And it’s 
brand new to us, too. There’s big money into it. Quint 
swore we’d get ours. And as we was on our uppers we 
went in. It’s like this: We lay for Americans from 
the Embassy or from any of the Consulates. They are 
our special game. It ain’t so much that we trim them ; 
we also get next to them; we make ’em talk right out 
in church. Any political dope they have we try to get. 
We get it any way we can. If they’ll accelerate we ac- 
celerate ’em ; if not, we dope ’em and take their papers. 
The main idee is to get a holt on ’em ! 

“That’s what Quint wants ; that’s what he’s payin’ 
for and gettin’ paid for — inside information from the 
Embassy and Consulates ” 

“What does Quint want of that.^” demanded Cur- 
foot, astonished. 

“How do I know.^* Blackmail.^ Graft.? I can’t call 
the dope. But listen here ! Don’t forget that it ain’t 
Quint who wants it. It’s the big feller behind him 
who’s backin’ him. It’s some swell guy higher up who’s 
payin’ Quint. And Quint, he pays us. So where’s the 
squeal coming.?” 




THE DARK STAR 


“Yes, but ” 

“Where’s the holler?” insisted Stull. 

“I ain’t hollerin’, am I? Only this here is new stuff 
to me ” 

“Listen, Doc. I don’t know what it is, but all these 
here European kings is settin’ watchin’ one another like 
toms in a back alley. I think that some foreign politi- 
cal high-upper wants dope on what our people are find- 
ing out over here. Like this, he says to himself: ‘I 
hear this Kink is building ten sooper ferry boats. If 
that’s right, I oughta know. And I hear that the Queen 
of Marmora has ordered a million new nifty fifty-shot 
bean-shooters for the boy scouts ! That is indeed seri- 
ous news !’ So he goes to his broker, who goes to a 
big feller, who goes to Quint, who goes to us. Flag 
me.f^” 

“Sure.” 

“That’s all. There’s nothing to it. Doc. Says Quint 
to us : ‘Trim a few guys for me and get their letters,’ 
says Quint ; ‘and there’s somethin’ in it for me and you !’ 
And thafs the new stuff. Doc.” 

“You mean we’re spies?” 

“Spies? I don’t know. We’re on a salary. We get 

a big bonus for every letter we find on the carpet ” 

He winked at Curfoot and relighted his cigar. 

“Say,” said the latter, “it’s like a creeping joint. 
It’s a panel game, Ben ” 

“It’s politics like they play ’em in Albany, only it’s 
ambassadors and kinks we trim, not corporations.” 

*^We can’t do it! What the hell do we know about 
kinks and attaches?” 

“No; Weishelm, Breslau and Kestner do that. We 
lay for the attaches or spin or deal or act handy at the 
bar and buffet with homesick Americans. No ; the fine 
272 


THE ROAD TO PARIS 


work — the high-up stuff, is done by Breslau and Weis- 
helm. And I guess there’s some fancy skirts somewhere 
in the game. But they’re silent partners ; and anyway 
Weishelm manages that part.” 

Curfoot, one lank knee over the other, swung his 
foot thoughtfully to and fro, his ratty eyes lost in 
dreamy revery. Brandes tossed his half-consumed cigar 
out of the open window and set fire to another. Stull 
waited for Curfoot to make up his mind. After several 
minutes the latter looked up from his cunning abstrac- 
tion : 

“Well, Ben, put it any way you like, but we’re just 
plain political spies. And what the hell do they hand 
us over here if we’re pinched?” 

“I don’t know. What of it?” 

“Nothing. If there’s good money in it. I’ll take a 
chance.” 

“There is. Quint backs us. When we get ’em com- 
ing ” 

“Ah,” said Doc with a wry face, “that’s all right for 
the cards or the wheel. But this pocket picking ” 

“Say; that ain’t what I mean. It’s like this: Young 
Fitznoodle of the Embassy staff gets soused and starts 
out lookin’ for a quiet game. We furnish the game. 
We don’t go through his pockets ; we just pick up what- 
ever falls out and take shorthand copies. Then back 
go the letters into Fitznoodle’s pocket ” 

“Yes. Who reads ’em first.?” 

“Breslau. Or some skirt, maybe.” 

“What’s Breslau.?” 

“Search me. He’s a Dutchman or a Rooshian or 
some sort of Dodo. What do you care?” 

“I don’t. All right, Ben. You’ve got to show me; 
that’s all.” 


273 


THE DARK STAR 


“Show you what?” 

“Spot cash!” 

“You’re in when you handle it?” 

“If you show me real money — yes.” 

“You’re on. I’ll cash a cheque of Quint’s for you at 
Monroe’s soon as we hit the asphalt I And when you 
finish counting out your gold nickels put ’em in your 
pants and play the game! Is that right?” 

“Yes.” 

They exchanged a wary handshake; then, one after 
another, they leaned back in their seats with the air 
of honest men who had done their day’s work. 

Curfoot blinked at Brandes, at his excessively 
groomed person, at his rings. 

“You look prosperous, Eddie.” 

“It’s his business to,” ’ remarked Stull. 

Brandes yawned: 

“It would be a raw deal if there’s a war over here,” 
he said listlessly. 

“Ah,” said Curfoot, “there won’t be none.” 

“Why?” 

“The Jews and bankers won’t let these kinks mix 
it.” 

“That’s right, too,” nodded Brandes. 

But Stull said nothing and his sour, pasty visage 
turned sourer. It was the one possibility that disturbed 
him — the only fly in the amber — the only mote that 
troubled his clairvoyance. Also, he was the only man 
among the three who didn’t think a thing was certain to 
happen merely because he wanted it to happen. 

There was another matter, too, which troubled him. 
Brandes was unreliable. And who but little Stull should 
know how unreliable? 

For Brandes had always been that. And now Stull 


THE ROAD TO PARIS 


knew him to be more than that — knew him to be treach- 
erous. 

Whatever in Brandes had been decent, or had, blindly 
perhaps, aspired toward decency, was now in abeyance. 
Something within him had gone to smash since Minna 
Minti had struck him that night in the frightened 
presence of Rue Carew. 

And from that night, when he had lost the only 
woman who had ever stirred in him the faintest aspi- 
ration to better things, the man had gradually 
changed. Whatever in his nature had been unreliable 
became treacherous ; his stolidity became sullenness. A 
slow ferocity burned within him ; embers of a rage which 
no brooding ever quenched slumbered red in his brain 
until his endless meditation became a monomania. And 
his monomania was the ruin of this woman who had 
taken from him in the very moment of consummation 
all that he had ever really loved in the world — a thin, 
awkward, freckled, red-haired country girl, in whom, 
for the first and only time in all his life, he saw the 
vague and phantom promise of that trinity which he 
had never known — a wife, a child, and a home. 

He sat there by the car window glaring out of his 
dull green eyes at the pleasant countryside, his thin lips 
tightening and relaxing on his cigar. 

Curfoot, still pondering over the “new stuff’’ offered 
him, brooded silently in his corner, watching the others 
out of his tiny, bright eyes. 

“Do anything in London.?” inquired Stull. 

“No.” 

“Who was you working for.?” 

“A jock and a swell skirt. But Scotland Yard got 
next and chased the main guy over the water.” 

“What was your lay?” 

S75 


THE DARK STAR 


“Same thing. I dealt for the jock and the skirt 
trimmed the squabs.” 

“Anybody holler?” 

“Aw — the kind we squeezed was too high up to hol- 
ler. Them young lords take their medicine like they 
wanted it. They ain’t like the home bunch that is 
named after swell hotels.” 

After a silence he looked up at Brandes: 

“What ever become of Minna Minti?” he asked. 

Brandes’ heavy features remained stolid. 

“She got her divorce, didn’t she?” insisted Curfoot. 

“Yes.” 

“Alimony?” 

“No. She didn’t ask any.” 

“How about Venem?” 

Brandes remained silent, but Stull said: 

“I guess she chucked him. She wouldn’t stand for 
that snake. I got to hand it to her; she ain’t that 
kind.” 

“What kind is she?” 

“I tell you I got to hand it to her. I can’t complain 
of her. She acted white all right until Venem stirred 
her up. Eddie’s got himself to blame ; he got in wrong 
and Venem had him followed and showed him up to 
Minna.” 

“You got tired of her, didn’t you?” said Curfoot to 
Brandes. But Stull answered for him again: 

“Like any man, Eddie needed a vacation now and 
then. But no skirt understands.” 

Brandes said slowly: 

“I’ll live to fix Minna yet.” 

“What fixed you,” snapped Stull, “was that there 
Brookhollow stuff ” 


“Can it!” retorted Brandes, turning a deep red. 

276 


THE ROAD TO PARIS 


“Aw — don’t hand me the true-love stuff, Eddie! If 
you’d meant it with that little haymaker you’d have 
respected her ” 

Brandes’ large face became crimson with rage: 

“You say another word about her and I’ll push your 
block off — you little dough-faced kike I” 

Stull shrugged and presently whispered to Curfoot: 

“That’s the play he always makes. I’ve waited two 
years, but he won’t ring down on the love stuff. I guess 
he was hit hard that trip. It took a little red-headed, 
freckled country girl to stop him. But it was cornin’ 
to Eddie Brandes, and it certainly looks like it was 
there to stay a while.” 

“He’s still stuck on her.?^” 

“I guess she’s still the fly paper,” nodded Stull. 

Suddenly Brandes turned on Stull such a look of con- 
centrated hatred that the little gambler’s pallid fea- 
tures stiffened with surprise: 

“Ben,” said Brandes in a low voice, which was too in- 
distinct for Neeland to catch, “I’ll tell you something 
now that you don’t know. I saw Quint alone ; I talked 
with him. Do you know who is handling the big stuff 
in this deal.J^” 

“Who.^” asked Stull, amazed. 

“The Turkish Embassy in Paris. And do you know 
who plays the fine Italian hand for that bunch of 
Turks?” 

“No.” 

“Minna!” 

“You’re crazy!” 

Brandes took no notice, but went on with a sort of 
hushed ferocity that silenced both Stull and Curfoot: 

“lliat’s why I went in. To get Minna. And I’ll get 
her if it costs every cent Pve got or ever hope to get. 
277 


THE DARK STAR 


That’s why I’m in this deal; that’s why I came; that’s 
why I’m here telling you this. I’m in it to get Minna, 
not for the money, not for anything in all God’s world 
except to get the woman who has done what Minna did 
to me.” 

Neeland listened in vain to the murmuring voice; he 
could not catch a word. 

Stull whispered: 

“Aw, f’r God’s sake, Eddie, that ain’t the game. Do 
you want to double-cross Quint 

“I have double-crossed him.” 

“What! Do you mean to sell him out?” 

“I have sold him out.” 

“Jesus I Who to?” 

“To the British Secret Service. And there’s to be 
one hundred thousand dollars in it. Doc, for you and me 
to divide. And fifty thousand more when we put the 
French bulls on to Minna and Breslau. Now, how does 
one hundred and fifty thousand dollars against five 
thousand apiece strike you two poor, cheap guys?” 

But the magnitude of Brandes’ treachery and the 
splendour of the deal left the two gamblers stunned. 

Only by their expressions could Neeland judge that 
they were discussing matters of vital importance to 
themselves and probably to him. He listened ; he could 
not hear what they were whispering. And only at in- 
tervals he dared glance over his book in their direc- 
tion. 

“Well,” said Brandes under his breath, “go on. Spit 
it out. What’s the squeal?” 

“My God!” whispered Stull. “Quint will kill you.” 

Brandes laughed unpleasantly: 

“Not me, Ben. I’ve got that geezer where I want him 
on a dirty deal he pulled off with the police.” 

278 


THE ROAD TO PARIS 


Curfoot turned his pointed muzzle toward the win- 
dow and sneered at the sunny landscape. 

A few minutes later, far across the rolling plain set 
with villas and farms, and green with hedgerows, gar- 
dens, bouquets of trees and cultivated fields, he caught 
dght of a fairy structure outlined against the sky. 
Turning to Brandes: 

^‘There’s the Eiffel Tower,” remarked Curfoot. 
“Where are we stopping, Eddie.?” 

“Caffy des Bulgars.” 

“Where’s that?” 

“It’s where we go to work — Roo Vilna.” 

Stull’s smile was ghastly, but Curfoot winked at 
Brandes. 

Neeland listened, his eyes following the printed pages 
of his book. 


CHAPTER XXV 


CUP AND LIP 

Through the crowded Paris terminal Neeland pushed 
his way, carrying the olive-wood box in his hand and 
keeping an eye on his porter, who preceded him carry- 
ing the remainder of his luggage and repeating: 

Place, sHl vous plait, mi'sieu*, dairies T' 

To Neeland it was like a homecoming after many 
years’ exile; the subtle but perfectly specific odour of 
Paris assailed his nostrils once again; the rapid, em- 
phatic, lively language of France sounded once more 
delightfully in his eager ears ; vivacity and intelligence 
sparkled in every eye that met his own. It was a throng 
of rapid movement, of animated speech, of gesticulation. 
And, as it was in the beginning when he first arrived 
there as a student, he fell in love with it at first sight 
and contact. 

All around him moved porters, passengers, railroad 
officials ; the red hepis of soldiers dotted the crowd ; a 
priest or two in shovel hat and buckled shoes, a Sister 
of Charity from the Rue de Bac lent graver accents to 
the throng; and everywhere were the pretty bourgeois 
women of the capital gathered to welcome relatives or 
friends, or themselves starting on some brief summer 
voyage so dear to those who seldom find it in their 
hearts to leave Paris for longer than a fortnight at a 
time. 

As he pressed onward he witnessed characteristic re- 
unions between voyagers and friends who awaited them 
280 


CUP AND LIP 


— animated, cordial, gay scenes complicated by many 
embraces on both cheeks. 

And, of a sudden, he noticed the prettiest girl he had 
ever seen in his life. She was in white, with a black 
straw hat, and her face and figure were lovely beyond 
words. Evidently she was awaiting friends ; there was 
a charming expectancy on her fresh young face, a slight 
forward inclination of her body, as though expectancy 
and happy impatience alone controlled her. 

Her beauty almost took his breath away. 

“Lord!” he thought to himself. “If such a girl as 
that ever stood waiting for me ” 

At the same moment her golden-grey eyes, sweeping 
the passing crowd, met his; a sharp thrill of amaze- 
ment passed through him as she held out both gloved 
hands with a soft exclamation of recognition: 

“Jim ! Jim Neeland !” 

“Rue Carew!” He could scarcely credit his eye- , 
sight, where he stood, hat in hand, holding both her 
little hands in one of his. 

No, there was no use in trying to disguise his aston- 
ishment. He looked into the face of this tall young 
girl, searched it for familiar features, recognised a 
lov^ely paraphrase of the freckled face and thin figure 
he remembered, and remained dumb before this radiant 
reincarnation of that other unhappy, shabby, and 
meagre child he had known two years ago. 

Ruhannah, laughing and flushed, withdrew her hands. 

“Have I changed? You haven’t. And I always 
thought you the most wonderful and ornamental young 
man on this planet. I knew you at once, Jim Neeland. 
Would you have passed without recognising me?” 

“Perhaps I wouldn’t have passed after seeing 


281 


THE DARK STAR 


‘‘Jim Neeland! What a remark!” She laughed. 
“Anyway, it’s nice to believe myself attractive enough 
to be noticed. And I’m so glad to see you. Nai'a is 
here, somewhere, watching for you” — turning her 
pretty, eager head to search for the Princess Mist- 
chenka. “Oh, there she is ! She doesn’t see us ” 

The}^ made their way between the passing ranks of 
passengers and porters ; the Princess caught sight of 
them, came hastily toward them. 

“Jim ! It’s nice to see you. Thank you for coming I 
So you found him. Rue? How are you, Jim? And 
where is the olive-wood box?” 

“I’m well, and there’s that devilish box 1” he replied, 
laughing and lifting it in his hand to exhibit it. “Nai'a, 
the next time you want it, send an escort of artillery 
and two battleships !” 

“Did you have trouble?” 

“Trouble? I had the time of my life. No moving 
picture can ever again excite me; no best seller. I’ve 
been both since I had your cable to get this box and 
bring it to you.” 

He laughed as he spoke, but the Princess continued 
to regard him very seriously, and Rue Carew’s smile 
came and waned like sunlight in a wood, for she was 
not quite sure whether he had really encountered any 
dangers on this mission which he had fulfilled so well. 

“Our car is waiting outside,” said the Princess. 
“Where is your porter, Jim?” 

Neeland glanced about him, discovered the porter, 
made a sign for him to follow, and they moved together 
toward the entrance to the huge terminal. 

‘T haven’t decided where to stop yet,” began Neeland, 
but the Princess checked him with a pretty gesture: 

“You stop with us, Jim.” 

282 


CUP AND LIP 


“Thank you so much, but ” 

“Please. Must I beg of you.^” 

“Do you really wish it.^” 

“Certainly,” she replied absently, glancing about her. 
She added: “I don’t see my car. I don’t see my foot- 
man. I told him to wait here. Rue, do you see him 
anywhere 

“No, I don’t,” said the girl. 

“How annoying!” said the Princess. “He’s a new 
man. My own footman was set upon and almost killed 
by Apaches a week ago. So I had to find a substitute; 
How stupid of him! Where on earth can he be wait- 
ing?” 

They traversed the court of the terminal. Many 
automobiles were parked there or just leaving; liveried 
footmen stood awaiting masters and mistresses; but 
nowhere was the car of the Princess Mistchenka in 
sight. 

They stood there, Neeland’s porter behind with his 
suitcase and luggage, not knowing whether to wait 
longer or summon a taxicab. 

“I don’t understand,” repeated the Princess impa- 
tiently. “I explained very carefully what I desired. 
That new groom is stupid. Caron, my chauffeur, would 
never have made a mistake unless that idiot groom mis- 
understood his instructions.” 

“Let me go and make some inquiries,” said Neeland. 
“Do you mind waiting here.? I’ll not be long ” 

He went off, carrying the olive-wood box, which his 
grasp never quitted now; and presently the Princess 
and Ruhannah saw him disappear among the ranks of 
automobiles and cabs. 

“I don’t like it. Rue,” repeated the Princess in a low 
voice. “I neither understand nor relish this situation.” 
283 


THE DARK STAR 


“Have you any idea ” 

“Hush, child! I don’t know. That new groom, Ver- 
dier, was recommended by the Russian Embassy. I 
don’t know what to think of this.” 

“It can't be anything — queer, can it, dear.^” asked 
Rue. 

“Anything can have happened. Nothing is likely to 
have occurred, however — unless — unless those Apaches 
were ” 

“Naia!” 

“It’s possible, I suppose. They may have attacked 
Picard as part of a conspiracy. The Russian Embassy 
may have been deceived in Verdier. All this may be 
part of a plan. But — I scarcely believe it. . . . All 
the same, I dislike to take a taxicab ” 

She caught sight of Neeland returning; both women 
moved forward to meet him. 

“I’ve solved the mystery,” he said. “Naia, your car 
was run into outside the station a few minutes after 
you left it. And I’m sorry to say that your chauffeur 
was badly enough hurt to require an ambulance.” 

“Where on earth did you learn that.?^” 

“The official at the taxicab control told me. I went 
to him because that is where one is likely to receive in- 
formation.” 

“Caron hurt!” murmured the Princess. “What a 
shame! Where did they take him, Jim.?^” 

“To the Charite.” 

“I’ll go this afternoon. But where is that imbecile 
groom of mine.f*” 

“It appears that he and a policeman went to a garage 
on the repair truck that took your car.” 

“Was he arrested?” 

“I believe so.” 


284 


CUP AND LIP 


“What a cirntretemps!'* exclaimed the Princess Mist- 
chenka. “We shall have to take a taxicab after 

aur 

“I’ve ordered one from the control. There it comes 
now,” said Neeland, as a brand new taxicab, which 
looked like a private car, drew up at the curb, and a 
smiling and very spick and span chauffeur saluted, 

Neeland’s porter hoisted trunk and suitcase on top; 
the Princess stepped into the limousine, followed by 
Rue and Neeland; the chauffeur took the order, started 
his car, wheeled out into the square, circled the traffic 
policeman, and whizzed away into the depths of the 
most beautiful city in the world. 

Neeland, seated with his back to the driver, laid the 
olive-wood box on his knees, unlocked it, drew from his 
breast pocket the papers he carried ; locked them in the 
box once more, and looked up laughingly at the 
Princess and Ruhannah as he placed it at his feet. 

“There you are!” he said. “Thank heaven my task 
and your affair have been accomplished. All the papers 
are there — and,” to Ruhannah, “that pretty gentleman 
you call the Yellow Devil is inside, along with some 
assorted firearms, drawing instruments, and photo- 
graphs. The whole business is here, intact — and so am 
I — if that irrelevant detail should interest you.” 

Rue smiled her answer; the Princess scrutinised him 
keenly : 

“Did you have trouble, Jim.^” 

“Yes, I did.” 

“Serious trouble.^” 

“I tell you it was like a movie in five reels. Never 
before did I believe such things happened outside a 
Yonkers studio. But they do, Nai'a. And I’ve learned 
that the world is full of more excitingly melodramatic 
285 


THE DARK STAR 


possibilities than any novel or scenario ever contained.” 

“You’re not serious, of course,” began Rue Carew, 
watching the varying expressions on his animated fea- 
tures ; but the Princess Mistchenka said, unsmiling : 

“A film melodrama is a crude and tawdry thing com- 
pared to the real drama so many of us play in every 
moment of our lives.” 

Neeland said to Rue, lightly: 

“That is true as far as I have been concerned with 
that amazing box. It’s full of the very devil — of that 
Yellow Devil! When I pick it up now I seem to feel a 
premonitory tingling all over me — not entirely disagree- 
able,” he added to the Princess, “but the sort of half- 
scared exhilaration a man feels who takes a chance and 
is quite sure he’ll not have another chance if he loses. 
Do you understand what I mean.?^” 

“Yes,” said the Princess unsmilingly, her clear, pleas- 
ant eyes fixed on him. 

In her tranquil, indefinite expression there was some- 
thing which made him wonder how many such chances 
this pretty woman had taken in her life of intellectual 
pleasure and bodily ease. 

And now he remembered that Use Dumont apparently 
knew about her — about Ruhannah, too. And Use Du- 
mont was the agent of a foreign government. 

Was the Princess Mistchenka, patron and amateur 
of the arts, another such agent? If not, why had he 
taken this journey for her with this box of papers? 

The passage of the Boulevard was slow; at every 
square traffic was halted ; all Paris crowded the streets 
in the early afternoon sunshine, and the taxicab in 
which they sat made little speed until the Place de la 
Concorde opened out and the great Arc — a tiny phan- 
tom of lavender and pearl — spanned the vanishing 
286 


CUP AND LIP 


point of a fairy perspoctive between parallel and end- 
less ramparts of tender green. 

“There was a lot of war talk on the Volhynia” said 
Neeland, “but I haven’t heard any since I landed, nor 
have I seen a paper. I suppose the Chancelleries have 
come to some agreement.” 

“No,” said the Princess. 

“You don’t expect trouble, do you.^ I mean a gen- 
eral European free-for-all fight 

“I don’t know, Jim.” 

“Haven’t you,” he asked blandly, “any means of ac- 
quiring inside information.?” 

She did not even pretend to evade the good-humoured 
malice of his smile and question: 

“Yes ; I have sources of private information. I have 
learned nothing, so far.” 

He looked at Rue, but the smile had faded from her 
face and she returned his questioning gaze gravely. 

“There is great anxiety in Europe,” she said in a 
low voice, “and the tension is increasing. When we 
arrive home we shall have a chance to converse more 
freely.” She made the slightest gesture with her head 
toward the chauffeur — a silent reminder and a caution. 

The Princess nodded slightly: 

“One never knows,” she remarked. “We shall have 
much to say to one another when we are safely home.” 

But Neeland could not take it very seriously here in 
the sunshine, with two pretty women facing him — ^here 
speeding up the Champs Elysees between the endless 
green of chestnut trees and the exquisite silvery-grey 
fa9ades of the wealthy — ^with motors flashing by on 
every side and the cool, leafy alleys thronged with chil- 
dren and nurse-maids, and Monsieur Guignol squeaking 
and drumming in his red-curtained box! 

287 


THE DARK STAR 


How could a young man believe in a sequel to the 
almost incredible melodrama in which he had figured, 
with such a sane and delightful setting, here in the fa- 
miliar company of two charming women he had known ? 

Besides, all Paris and her police were at his elbow; 
the olive-wood box stood between his knees ; a smartly 
respectable taxi and its driver drove them with the 
quiet eclat and precision of a private employe; the Arc 
de Triomphe already rose splendidly above them, and 
everything that had once been familiar and reassuring 
and delightful lay under his grateful eyes on every 
side. 

And now the taxicab turned into the rue Soleil d’Or 
— a new street to Neeland, opened since his student 
days, and only one square long, with a fountain in the 
middle and young chestnut trees already thickly 
crowned with foliage lining both sides of the street. 

But although the rue Soleil d’Or was a new street to 
him, Paris construction is also a rapid affair. The 
street was faced by charming private houses built of 
grey Caen stone; the fountain with its golden sundial, 
with the seated figure — a life-size replica of Manship’s 
original in the Metropolitan Museum — serenely and 
beautifully holding its place between the Renaissance 
fa9ades and rows of slender trees. 

Summer had not yet burned foliage or flowers; the 
freshness of spring itself seemed still to reign there. 

Three blue-bloused street-sweepers with hose and 
broom were washing the asphalt as their cab slowed 
down, sounding its horn to warn them out of the way. 
And, the spouting hose still in their hands, the street- 
cleaners stepped out of the gutter before the pretty 
private hotel of Madame la Princesse. 

Already a butler was opening the grille; already the 

288 


CUP AND LIP 


chauffeur had swung Neeland’s steamer trunk and suit- 
case to the sidewalk ; already the Princess and Rue were 
advancing to the house, while Neeland fumbled in his 
pocket for the fare. 

The butler, bowing, relieved him of the olive-wood 
box. At the same instant the blue-bloused man with the 
hose turned the powerful stream of water directly into 
the butler’s face, knocking him flat on the sidewalk ; and 
his two comrades tripped up Neeland, passed a red 
sash over his head, and hurled him aside, blinded, half 
strangled, staggering at random, tearing furiously at 
the wide band of woollen cloth which seemed to suffo- 
cate him. 

Already the chauffeur had tossed the olive-wood box 
into the cab ; the three blue-bloused men sprang in after 
it; the chauffeur slipped into his seat, threw in the 
clutch, and, driving with one hand, turned a pistol on 
the half drowned butler, who had reeled to his feet and 
was lurching forward to seize the steering wheel. 

The taxicab, gathering speed, was already turning 
the corner of the rue de la Lune when Neeland managed 
to free throat and eyes from the swathe of woollen. 

The butler, checked by the levelled pistol, stood drip- 
ping, still almost blinded by the force of the water from 
the hose; but he had plenty of pluck, and he followed 
Neeland on a run to the corner of the street. 

The street was absolutely empty, except for the spar- 
rows, and the big, fat, slate-coloured pigeons that strut- 
ted and coo-cooed under the shadow of the chestnut 
trees. 


CHAPTER XXVI 


RUE SOLEIL D’OR 

MAROTTE5 the butler, in dry clothes, had served 
luncheon — a silent, respectable, self-respecting man, 
calm in his fury at the incredible outrage perpetrated 
upon his person. 

And now luncheon was over ; the Princess at the tele- 
phone in her boudoir ; Rue in the music-room with Nee- 
land, still excited, anxious, confused. 

Astonishment, mortification, anger, had left Neeland 
silent; and the convention known as luncheon had not 
appealed to him. 

But very little was said during that formality; and 
in the silence the serious nature of the episode which so 
suddenly had deprived the Princess of the olive-wood 
box and the papers it contained impressed Neeland 
more and more deeply. 

The utter unexpectedness of the outrage — the help- 
less figure he had cut — infuriated him. And the more 
he reflected the madder he grew when he realised that 
all he had gone through meant nothing now — that every 
effort had been sterile, every hour wasted, every step 
he had taken from Brookhollow to Paris — to the very 
doorstep where his duty ended — ^had been taken in 
vain. 

It seemed to him in his anger and humiliation that 
never had any man been so derided, so heartlessly 
mocked by the gods. 

And now, as he sat there behind lowered blinds in the 

290 


RUE SOLEIL D OR 


cool half-light of the music-room, he could feel the hot 
blood of resentment and chagrin in his cheeks. 

“Nobody could have foreseen it,” repeated Rue Ca- 
rew in a pretty, bewildered voice. “And if the Princess 
Naia had no suspicions, how could I harbour any — or 
how could you?” 

“I’ve been sufficiently tricked — or I thought I had 
been — to be on my guard. But it seems not. I ought 
never to have been caught in such a digusting trap — 
such a simple, silly, idiotic cage! But — good Lord! 
How on earth was a man to suspect anything so — so 
naturally planned and executed — so simply done. It 
^vas an infernal masterpiece. Rue. But — that is no con- 
solation to a man who has been made to appear like a 
monkey !” 

The Princess, entering, overheard; and she seated 
herself and looked tranquilly at Neeland as he resumed 
his place on the sofa. 

“You were not to blame, Jim,” she said. “It was my 
fault. I had warning enough at the railroad terminal 
when an accident to my car was reported to me by the 
control through you.” She added, calmly : “There was 
no accident.” 

“No accident?” exclaimed Neeland, astonished. 

“None at all. My new footman, who followed us to 
the waiting salon for incoming trains, returned to my 
chauffeur, Caron, saying that he was to go back to 
the garage and await orders. I have just called the 
garage and I had Caron on the wire. There was no 
accident; he has not been injured; and — the new foot- 
man has disappeared!” 

“It was a clear case of treachery?” exclaimed Nee- 
land. 

“Absolutely a plot. The pretended official at the 

291 


THE DARK STAR 


terminal control was an accomplice of my footman, of 
the taxicab driver, of the pretended street-cleaners — 
and of whom else I can, perhaps, imagine.” 

‘‘Did you call the terminal control?” 

“I did. The official in charge and the starter had 
seen no such accident; had given no such information. 
Some masquerader in uniform must have intercepted 
you, Jim.” 

“I found him coming toward me on the sidewalk not 
far from the kiosque. He was in uniform; I never 
dreamed he was not the genuine thing.” 

“There is no blame attached to you ” 

“Naia, it actually sickens me to discover how little 
sense I possess. I’ve been through enough to drive 
both suspicion and caution into this wooden head of 
mine ” 

“What have you been through, Jim?” asked the 
Princess calmly. 

“I’ll tell you. I didn’t play a brilliant role, I’m sorry 
to admit. Not common sense but sheer luck pulled me 
through as far as your own doorstep. And there,” he 
added disgustedly, “the gods no doubt grew tired of 
such an idiot, and they handed me what was coming to 
me.” 

He was so thoroughly and so boyishly ashamed and 
angry with himself that a faint smile flitted over the 
Princess Naia’s lips. 

“Proceed, James,” she said. 

“All right. Only first may I ask — who is Use Du- 
mont ?” 

For a moment the Princess sat silent, expressionless, 
intent on the man whose clear, inquiring eyes still ques- 
tioned her. 

The Princess finally answered with a question: 

292 


RVE SOLEIL D’OR 


“Did she cause you any trouble, Jim?” 

“Every bit I had was due to her. Also — and here’s 
a paradox — I shouldn’t be here now if Use Dumont had 
not played square with me. Who is she?” 

The Princess Naia did not reply immediately. In- 
stead, she dropped one silken knee over the other, 
lighted a cigarette, and sat for a few moments gazing 
into space. Then: 

“Use Dumont,” she said, “is a talented and exceed- 
ingly pretty young woman who was born in Alsace of 
one German and one thorou^ly Germanised parent. 

“She played two seasons in Chicago in light opera 
under another name. She had much talent, an accepta- 
ble voice and she became a local favourite.” 

The Princess looked at her cigarette; continued 
speaking as though addressing it: 

“She sang at the Opera Comique here in Paris the 
year before last and last year. Her roles were minor 
ones. Early this spring she abruptly broke her con- 
tract with the management and went to New York.” 

Neeland said bluntly: 

“Use Dumont is an agent in the service of the Turk- 
ish Government.” 

The Princess nodded. 

“Did you know it, Naia?” 

“I began to suspect it recently.” 

“May I ask how?” 

The Princess glanced at Rue and smiled : 

“Ruhannah’s friend. Colonel Izzet Bey, was very de- 
voted to Minna Minti- ” 

“To whomr exclaimed Neeland, astounded. 

“To Use Dumont. Minna Minti is her stage name,” 
said the Princess. 

Neeland turned and looked at Rue, who, conscious 

293 


THE DARK STAR 


of his excitement, flushed brightly, yet never suspect- 
ing what he was about to say. 

The Princess said quietly: 

‘‘Yes, tell her, Jim. It is better she should know. 
Until now it has not been necessary to mention the mat- 
ter, or I should have done so.” 

Rue, surprised, still prettily flushed with expectancy, 
looked with new curiosity from one to the other. 

Neeland said : 

“Use Dumont, known on the stage as Minna Minti, 
is the divorced wife of Eddie Brandes.” 

At the mention of a name so long hidden away, buried 
in her memory, and almost forgotten, the girl quivered 
and straightened up, as though an electric shock had 
passed through her body. 

Then a burning colour flooded her face as at the 
swift stroke of a lash, and her grey eyes glimmered with 
the starting tears. 

“You’ll have to know it, darling,” said the Princess 
in a low voice. “There is no reason why you should 
not; it no longer can touch you. Don’t you know 
that.?” 

“Y-yes ” Ruhannah’s slowly drooping head 

was lifted again; held high; and the wet brilliancy 
slowly dried in her steady eyes. 

“Before I tell you,” continued Neeland, “what hap- 
pened to me through Use Dumont, I must tell you what 
occurred in the train on my way to Paris. . . . May I 
have a cigarette. Princess Nai'a.?” 

“At your elbow in that silver box.” 

Rue Carew lighted it for him with a smile, but her 
hand still trembled. ♦ 

“First,” he said, “tell me what particular significance 
those papers in the olive-wood box have. Then I can 
294 


BUE SOLEIL D’OR 


tell you more intelligently what happened to me since I 
went to Brookhollow to find them.” 

“They are the German plans for the fortification of 
the mainland commanding the Dardanelles, and for the 
forts dominating the Gallipoli peninsula.” 

“Yes, I know that. But of what interest to England 
or France or Russia ” 

“If there is to be war, can’t you understand the im- 
portance to us of those plans.?” asked the Princess in 
a low, quiet voice. 

“To — ‘us’.?” he repeated. 

“Yes, to us. I am Russian, am I not.?” 

“Yes. I now understand how very Russian you are, 
Princess. But what has Turkey ” 

“What is Turkey.?” 

“An empire ” 

“No. A German province.” 

“I did not know ” 

“That is what the Ottoman Empire is today,” con- 
tinued the Princess Mistchenka, “a Turkish province 
fortified by Berlin, governed from Berlin through a 
Germanised Turk, Enver Pasha; the army organised, 
drilled, equipped, officered, and paid by the Kaiser Wil- 
helm ; every internal resource and revenue and develop- 
ment and projected development mortgaged to Ger- 
many and under German control ; and the Sultan a no- 
body !” 

“I did not know it,” repeated Neeland. 

“It is the truth, mon ami. It is inevitable that Tur- 
key fights if Germany goes to war. England, France, 
Russia know it. Ask yourself, then, how enormous to 
us the value of those plans — tentative, sketchy, per- 
haps, yet the inception and foundation of those Ger- 
man-made and German-armed fortifications which today 
295 


THE DARK STAR 


line the Dardanelles and the adjacent waters within the 
sphere of Ottoman influence!” 

“So that is why you wanted them,” he said with an 
unhappy glance at Rue. “What idiotic impulse 
prompted me to put them back in the box I can’t im- 
agine. You saw me do it, there in the taxicab.” 

Ruhannah said: 

“The chauffeur saw you, too. He was looking at 
you in his steering mirror ; I saw his face. But it never 
entered my mind that anyfhing except idle curiosity 
possessed him.” 

“Perhaps,” said the Princess to Neeland, “what you 
did with the papers saved your life. Had that chauf- 
feur not seen you place them in the box, he might 
have shot and robbed you as you left the cab, merely 
on the chance of your having them on your per- 
son.” 

There was a silence; then Neeland said: 

“This is a fine business ! As far as I can see murder 
seems to be the essence of the contract.” 

“It is often incidental to it,” said the Princess Mist- 
chenka serenely. “But you and Ruhamiah will soon 
be out of this affair.” 

said the girl, surprised. 

“I think so.” 

“Why, dear.?” 

“I think there is going to be war. And if there is, 
France will be concerned. And that means that you 
and Ruhannah, too, will have to leave France.” 

“But you?” asked the girl, anxiously. 

“I expect to remain. How long can you stay here, 
Jim.?” 

Neeland cast an involuntary glance at Rue as he 
replied : 


296 


RUE SOLEIL D OR 


“I intended to take the next steamer. Why? Can I 
be of any service to you, Princess Naia?” 

The Princess Mistchenka let her dark eyes rest on 
him for a second, then on Rue Carew. 

“I was thinking,” she said, “that you might take 
Ruhannah back with you if war is declared.” 

“Back to America !” exclaimed the girl. “But where 
am I to go in America ? What am I to do there ? I — I 
didn’t think I was quite ready to earn my own living” — 
looking anxiously at the Princess Nai'a — ^“do you think 
so, dear.?” 

The Princess said : 

“I wanted you to remain. And you must not worry, 

darling. Some day I shall want you back But if 

there is to be war in Europe you cannot remain here.” 

“Why not?” 

“In the first place, only useful people would be wanted 
in Paris ” 

“But, Nai'a, darling! Couldn’t I be useful to you?” 
The girl jumped up from the sofa and came and knelt 
down by the Princess Mistchenka, looking up into her 
face. 

The Princess laid aside her cigarette and put both 
hands on Rue’s shoulders, looking her gravely, ten- 
derly in the eyes. 

“Dear,” she said, “I want James Neeland to hear 
this, too. For it is partly a confession. 

“When I first saw you. Rue, I was merely sorry for 
you, and willing to oblige Jim Neeland by keeping an 
eye on you until you were settled somewhere here in 
Paris. 

“Before we landed I liked you. And, because I saw 
wonderful possibilities in the little country girl who 
shared my stateroom, I deliberately made up my mind 
S97 


THE BARK STAR 


to develop you, make use of your excellent mind, your 
quick intelligence, your amazing capacity for absorb- 
ing everything that is best, and your very unusual at- 
tractions for my own purposes. I meant — to train you 
— educate you — to aid me.” 

There was a silence ; the girl looked up at her, flushed, 
intent, perplexed ; the Princess Mistchenka, her hands 
on the girl’s shoulders, looked back at her out of grave 
and beautiful dark eyes. 

“That is the truth,” said the Princess. “My inten- 
tion was to develop you along the lines which I follow 
as a — profession ; teach you to extract desirable infor- 
mation through your wit, intelligence, and beauty — 

using your youth as a mask. But I — I can’t do it ” 

She shook her head slightly. “Because Pve lost my 
heart to you. . . . And the business I follow is a — a 
rotten game.” 

Again silence fell among those three; Rue, kneeling 
at the elder woman’s feet, looked up into her face in 
silence ; Neeland, his elbows resting on his knees, leaned 
slightly forward from the sofa, watching them. 

“I’ll help you, if you wish,” said Rue Carew. 

“Thank you, dear. No.” 

“Let me. I owe you everything since I have been 
here ” 

“No, dear. What I said to you — and to James — is 
true. It’s a merciless, stealthy, treacherous business ; 
it’s dangerous to a woman, body and soul. It is one 
long lifetime of experience with treachery, with greed, 
with baser passions, with all that is ignoble in mankind. 

“There is no reason for you to enter such a circle; 
no excuse for it; no duty urges you; no patriotism 
incites you to such self-sacrifice; no memory of wrong 
done to your nearest and dearest inspires you to dedi- 
298 


EVE SOLEIL D OR 


cate your life to aiding — if only a little, in the downfall 
and destruction of the nation and the people who en- 
compassed it!” 

The Princess Mistchenka’s dark eyes began to gleam, 
and her beautiful face lost its colour ; and she took Rr^e’s 
little hands in both of hers and held them tightly 
against her breast. 

‘•Had I not lost my heart to you, perhaps I should 
not have hesitated to develop and make use of you. 

“You are fitted for the role I might wish you to play. 
Men are fascinated by you ; your intelligence charms ; 
your youth and innocence, worn as a mask, might make 
you invaluable to the Chancellerie which is interested 
in the information I provide for it. 

“But, Rue, I have come to understand that I cannot 
do this thing. No. Go back to your painting and your 
clever drawing and your music ; any one of these is cer- 
tain to give you a living in time. And in that direction 
alone your happiness lies.” 

She leaned forward and kissed the girl’s hair where it 
was fine and blond, close to the snowy forehead. 

“If war comes,” she said, “you and James will have 
to go home, like two good children when the curfew 
rings.” 

She laughed, pushed Rue away, lighted another ciga- 
rette, and, casting a glance partly ironical, partly 
provocative, at the good-looking young man on the 
sofa, said: 

“As for you, James, I don’t worry about you. Im- 
pudence will always carry you through where diplo- 
macy fails you. Now, tell me all about these three 
unpleasant sporting characters who occupied the train 
with you.” 

Neeland laughed. 


299 


THE DARK STAR 


“It seems that a well-known gambler in New York, 
called Captain Quint, is backing them; and somebody 
higher up is backing Quint ” 

“Probably the Turkish Embassy at Washington,” 
interposed the Princess, coolly. “I’m sorry, Jim; pray 
go on.” 

“The Turkish Embassy.^” he repeated, surprised 
that she should guess. 

“Yes; and the German Embassy is backing that. 
There you are, Jim. That is the sequence as far as 
your friend, Captain Quint. Now, who comes next in 
the scale.?*” 

“This man — Brandes — and the little chalk-faced 
creature, Stull; and the other one, with the fox face — 
Doc Curfoot.” 

“I see. And then.?*” 

“Then, as I gathered, there are several gentlemen 
wearing Teutonic names — who are to go into partner- 
ship with them — one named Kestner, one called Theo- 
dore Weishelm, and an exceedingly oily Eurasian gen- 
tleman with whom I became acquainted on the Volhynia 
— one Karl Breslau ” 

“Breslau!” exclaimed the Princess. **Now I under- 
stand.” 

“Who is he. Princess.?” 

“He is the most notorious international spy in the 
world — a protean individual with aliases, professions, 
and experiences sufficient for an entire jail full of crimi- 
nals. His father was a German Jew; his mother a 
Circassian girl; he was educated in Germany, France, 
Italy, and England. He has been a member of the so- 
cialist group in the Reichstag under one name, a mem- 
ber of the British Parliament under another; he did 
dirty work for Abdul Hamid ; dirtier for Enver Bey. 

800 


RUE SOLEIL D OR 


“He is here, there, everywhere; he turns up in Bra- 
zil one day, and is next in evidence in Moscow. What 
he is so eternally about God only knows : what 
Chancellery he serves, which he betrays, is a question 
that occupies many uneasy minds this very hour, I 
fancy. 

“But of this I, personally, am now satisfied; Karl 
Breslau is responsible for the robbery of your papers 
today, and the entire affair was accomplished under 
his direction!” 

“And yet I know,” said Neeland, “that after he and 
Kestner tried to blow up the captain’s cabin and the 
bridge aboard the Volhynia yesterday morning at a 
little after two o’clock, he and Kestner must have 
jumped overboard in the Mersey River off Liverpool.” 

“Without doubt a boat was watching your ship.” 

“Yes ; Weishelm had a fishing smack to pick them 
up. Use Dumont must have gone with them, too.” 

“All they had to do was to touch at some dock, go 
ashore, and telegraph to their men here,” said the Prin- 
cess. 

“That, evidently, is what they did,” admitted Nee- 
land ruefully. 

“Certainly. And by this time they may be here, 
too. They could do it. I haven’t any doubt that Bres- 
lau, Kestner, and Use Dumont are here in Paris at this 
moment.” 

“Then I’ll wager I know where they are!” 

“Where.?” 

“In the Hotel des Bulgars, rue Vilna. That’s where 
they are to operate a gaming house. That is where 
they expect to pluck and fleece the callow and the aged 
who may have anything of political importance about 
them worth stealing. That is their plan. Agents, 
601 


THE DARK STAR 


officials, employees of all consulates, legations, and em- 
bassies are what they’re really after. I heard them 
discussing it there in the train today.” 

The Princess had fallen very silent, musing, watching 
Neeland’s animated face as he detailed his knowledge 
of what had occurred. 

“Why not notify the police.^” he added. “There 
might be a chance to recover the box and the papers.” 

The Princess shook her pretty head. 

“We have to be very careful how we use the police, 
James. It seems simple, but it is not. I can’t explain 
the reasons, but we usually pit spy against spy, and 
keep very clear of the police. Otherwise,” she added, 
smiling, “there would be the deuce to pay among the 
embassies and legations.” She added: “It’s a most 
depressing situation ; I don’t exactly know what to do. 
... I have letters to write, anyway 

She rose, turned to Rue and took both her hands : 

“No; you must go back to New York and to your 
painting and music if there is to be war in Europe. 
But you have had a taste of what goes on in certain 
circles here; you have seen what a chain of conse- 
quences ensue from a chance remark of a young girl at 
a dinner table.” 

“Yes.” 

“It’s amusing, isn’t it? A careless and innocent 
word to that old busybody, Ahmed Mirka Pasha, at my 
table — that began it. Then another word to Izzet 
Bey. And I had scarcely time to realise what had 
happened — ^barely time to telegraph James in New 
York — before their entire underground machinery was 
set in motion to seize those wretched papers in Brook- 
hollow !” 

Neeland said: 


302 


RUE SOLEIL D OR 


“You don’t know even yet, Princess, how amazingly 
fast that machinery worked.” 

“Tell me now, James. I have time enough to write 
my warning since it is already too late.” And she 
seated herself on the sofa and drew Ruhannah down 
beside her. 

“Listen, dear,” she said with pretty mockery, “here 
is a most worthy young man who is simply dying to 
let us know how picturesque a man can be when he 
tries to.” 

Neeland laughed: 

“The only trouble with me,” he retorted, “is that 
I’ve a rather hopeless habit of telling the truth. Other- 
wise there’d be some chance for me as a hero in what 
I’m going to tell you.” 

And he began with his first encounter with Use Du- 
mont in Rue Carew’s house at Brookhollow. After 
he had been speaking for less than a minute, Rue Ca- 
rew’s hands tightened in the clasp of the Princess Naia, 
who glanced at the girl and noticed that she had lost 
her colour. 

And Neeland continued his partly playful, partly 
serious narrative of “moving accidents by flood and 
field,” aware of the girl’s deep, breathless interest, 
moved by it, and, conscious of it, the more inclined to 
avoid the picturesque and heroic, and almost ashamed 
to talk of himself at all under the serious beauty of 
the girl’s clear eyes. 

But he could scarcely tell his tale and avoid men- 
tioning himself; he was the centre of it all, the focus 
of the darts of Fate, and there was no getting away 
from what happened to himself. i 

So he made the melodrama a comedy, and the mo- 
ments of deadly peril he treated lightly. And one thing 
SOS 


THE DARK STAR 


he avoided altogether, and that was how he had kissed 
Use Dumont. 

When he finished his account of his dreadful situa- 
tion in the stateroom of Use Dumont, and how at the 
last second her unerring shots had shattered the bomb 
clock, cut the guy-rope, and smashed the water- jug 
which deluged the burning fuses, he added with a very 
genuine laugh: 

“If only some photographer had taken a few hun- 
dred feet of film for me I could retire on an income 
in a year and never do another stroke of honest 
work !” 

The Princess smiled, mechanically, but Rue Carew 
dropped her white face on the Princess Naia’s shoulder 
as though suddenly fatigued. 


CHAPTER XXVII 


FROM FOUR TO FIVE 

The Princess Mistchenka and Rue Carew had re- 
tired to their respective rooms for that hour between 
four and five in the afternoon, which the average woman 
devotes to cat-naps or to that aimless feminine fussing 
which must ever remain a mystery to man. 

The afternoon had turned very warm; Neeland, in 
his room, lay on the lounge in his undershirt and trou- 
sers, having arrived so far toward bathing and chang- 
ing his attire. 

No breeze stirred the lattice blinds hanging over 
both open windows; the semi-dusk of the room was 
pierced here and there by slender shafts of sunlight 
which lay almost white across the carpet and striped 
the opposite wall ; the rue Soleil d’Or was very silent in 
the July afternoon. 

And Neeland lay there thinking about all that had 
happened to him and trying to bring it home to him- 
self and make it seem plausible and real ; and could not. 

For even now the last ten days of his life seemed 
like a story he had read concerning someone el^e. 
Nor did it seem to him that he personally had known 
all those people concerned in this wild, exaggerated, 
grotesque story. They, too, took their places on the 
printed page, appearing, lingering, disappearing, re- 
appearing, as chapter succeeded chapter in a romance 
too obvious, too palpably sensational to win the confi- 
dence and credulity of a young man of today. 

305 


THE DARK STAB 


Fed to repletion on noisy contemporary fiction, his 
finer perception blunted by the daily and raucous yell 
of the New York press, his imagination too long over- 
strained by Broadway drama and now flaccid and in- 
capable of further response to its leering or shrieking 
appeal, the din of twentieth-century art fell on nerve- 
less ears and on a brain benumbed and sceptical. 

And so when everything that he had found grotesque, 
illogical, laboured, obvious, and clamorously redundant 
in literature and the drama began to happen and con- 
tinued to happen in real life to him — and went on hap- 
pening and involving himself and others all around 
him in the pleasant July sunshine of 1914, this young 
man, made intellectually hlasSy found himself without 
sufficient capacity to comprehend it. 

There was another matter with which his mind was 
struggling as he lay there, his head cradled on one 
elbow, watching the thin blue spirals from his ciga- 
rette mount straight to the ceiling, and that was the 
metamorphosis of Rue Carew. 

Where was the thin girl he remembered — with her 
untidy chestnut hair and freckles, and a rather sweet 
mouth — dressed in garments the only mission of which 
was to cover a flat chest and frail body and limbs 
whose too rapid growth had outstripped maturity 

To search for her he went back to the beginning, 
where a little girl in a pink print dress, bare-legged 
and hatless, loitered along an ancient rail fence and 
looked up shyly at him as he warned her to keep out 
of range of the fusillade from the bushes across the 
pasture. 

He thought of her again at the noisy party in Gay- 
field on that white night in winter; visualised the tall, 
shy, overgrown girl who danced with him and made no 

306 


FROM FOUR TO FIVE 


complaint when her slim foot was trodden on. And 
again he remembered the sleigh and the sleighbclls 
clashing and tinkling under the moon; the light from 
her doorway, and how she stood looking back at him; 
and how, on the mischievous impulse of the moment, he 
had gone back and kissed her 

At the memory an odd sensation came over him, scar- 
ing him a little. How on earth had he ever had the 
temerity to do such a thing to her! 

And, as he thought of this exquisite, slender, clear- 
eyed young girl who had greeted him at the Paris ter- 
minal — this charming embodiment of all that is fresh 
and sweet and fearless — in her perfect hat and gown 
of mondaine youth and fashion, the memory of his 
temerity appalled him. 

Imagine his taking an unencouraged liberty now! 

Nor could he dare imagine encouragement from the 
Rue Carew so amazingly revealed to him. 

Out of what, in heaven’s name, had this lovely 
girl developed.^ Out of a shy, ragged, bare-legged 
child, haunting the wild blackberry tangles in Brook- 
hollow ? 

Out of the frail, charmingly awkward, pathetic, 
freckled mill-hand in her home-made party clothes, the 
rather sweet expression of whose mouth once led him 
to impudent indiscretion.^ 

Out of what had she been evolved — this young girl 
whom he had left just now standing beside her boudoir 
door with the Princess Naia’s arm around her waist.? 
Out of the frightened, white-lipped, shabby girl who 
had come dragging her trembling limbs and her suit- 
case up the dark stairway outside his studio.? Out 
of the young thing with sagging hair, crouched in an 
armchair beside his desk, where her cheap hat lay with 
307 


THE DARK STAR 


two cheap hatpins sticking in the crown? Out of the 
fragile figure buried in the bedclothes of a stateroom 
berth, holding out to him a thin, bare arm in voiceless 
adieu? 

And Neeland lay there thinking, his head on his el- 
bow, the other arm extended — from the fingers of which 
the burnt-out cigarette presently fell to the floor. 

He thought to himself : 

“She is absolutely beautiful ; there’s no denying that. 
It’s not her clothes or the way she does her hair, or 
her voice, or the way she moves, or how she looks at 
a man; it’s the whole business. And the whole bally 
business is a miracle, that’s all. Good Lord! And to 
think I ever had the nerve — the nerve!** 

He swung himself to a sitting posture, sat gazing 
into space for a few moments, then continued to undress 
by pulling off one shoe, lighting a cigarette, anvd re- 
garding his other foot fixedly. 

That is the manner in which the vast majority of 
young men do their deepest thinking. 

However, before five o’clock he had scrubbed himself 
and arrayed his well constructed person in fresh linen 
and outer clothing; and now he sauntered out through 
the hallway and down the stairs to the rear drawing- 
room, where a tea-table had been brought in and tea 
paraphernalia arranged. Although the lamp under the 
kettle had been lighted, nobody was in the room ex- 
cept a West Highland terrier curled up on a lounge, 
who, without lifting his snow-white head, regarded Nee- 
land out of the wisest and most penetrating eyes the 
young man had ever encountered. 

Here w€L 5 a personality ! Here was a dog not to be 
approached lightly or with flippant familiarity. No! 
That small, long, short-legged body with its thatch of 
308 


FROM FOUR TO FIVE 


wiry white hair was fairly instinct with dignity, wis- 
dom, and uncompromising self-respect. 

‘‘That dog,” thought Neeland, venturing to seat 
himself on a chair opposite, “is a Presbyterian if ever 
there was one. And I, for one, haven’t the courage 
to address him until he deigns to speak to me.” 

He looked respectfully at the dog, glanced at the 
kettle which had begun to sizzle a little, then looked 
out of the long windows into the little walled garden 
where a few slender fruit trees grew along the walls 
in the rear of well-kept flower beds, now gay with 
phlox, larkspur, poppies, and heliotrope, and edged 
with the biggest and bluest pansies .he had ever beheld. 

On the wall a Peacock butterfly spread its brown 
velvet and gorgeously eyed wings to the sun’s warmth; 
a blackbird with brilliant yellow bill stood astride a 
peach twig and poured out a bubbling and incessant 
melody full of fluted grace notes. And on the grass 
oval a kitten frisked with the ghosts of last month’s 
dandelions, racing after the drifting fluff and occasion- 
ally keeling over to attack its own tail, after the 
enchanting manner of all kittens. 

A step behind him and Neeland turned. If was 
Marotte, the butler, who presented a thick, sealed en- 
velope to ’him on his salver, bent to turn down the flame 
under the singing silver kettle, and withdrew without a 
sound. 

Neeland glanced at the letter in perplexity, opened 
the envelope and the twice-folded sheets of letter paper 
inside, and .read this odd communication: 

Have I been fair to you? Did I keep my word? Surely 
you must now, in your heart, acquit me of treachery — of 
any premeditated violence toward you. 

I never dreamed that those men would come to my 

309 


THE DARK STAR 


stateroom. That plan had been discussed, but was aban- 
doned because it appeared impossible to get hold of you. 

And also — may I admit it without being misunder- 
stood.^ — I absolutely refused to permit any attempt in- 
volving your death. 

When the trap shut on you, there in my stateroom, it 
shut also on me. I was totally unprepared; I was averse 
to murder; and also I had given you my word of honour. 

Judge, then, of my shame and desperation — my anger 
at being entrapped in a false position involving the loss 
in your eyes of my personal honour! 

It was unbearable: and I did what I could to make it 
clear to you that I had not betrayed you. But my com- 
rades do not yet know that I had any part in it; do not 
yet understand why the ship was not blown to splinters. 
They are satisfied that I made a mistake in the rendezvous. 
And, so far, no suspicion attaches to me; they believe the 
mechanism of the clock failed them. And perhaps it is 
well for me that they believe this. 

It is, no doubt, a matter of indifference to you how the 
others and I reached safety. I have no delusions concern- 
ing any personal and kindly feeling on your part toward 
me. But one thing you can not — dare not — believe, and 
that is that I proved treacherous to you and false to my 
own ideas of honour. 

And now let me say one more thing to you — let me say 
it out of a — friendship — for which you care nothing — 
could not care anything. And that is this: your task is 
accomplished. You could not possibly have succeeded* 
There is no chance for recovery of those papers. Your 
mission is definitely ended. 

Now, I beg of you to return to America. Keep clear 
of entanglement in these events which are beginning to 
happen in such rapid succession in Europe. They do not 
concern you; you have nothing to do with them, no in- 
terest in them. Your entry into affairs which can not con- 
cern you would be insulting effrontery and foolish bravado. 

I beg you to heed this warning. I know you to be 
I>ersonally courageous; I suppose that fear of conse- 
quences would not deter you from intrusion into any af- 
fair, however dangerous; but I dare hope that perhaps 

SIO 


FROM FOUR TO FIFE 


in your heart there may have been born a little spark of 
friendliness — a faint warmth of recognition for a woman 
who took some slight chance with death to prove to you 
that her word of honour is not lightly given or lightly 
broken. 

So, if you please, our ways part here with this letter 
sent to you by hand. 

I shall not forget the rash but generous boy I knew 
who called me 


ScHBHERAZADE. 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


TOGETHEB 

He sat there, holding the letter and looking absently 
over it at the little dog who had gone to sleep again. 
There was no sound in the room save the faint whisper 
of the tea-kettle. The sunny garden outside was very 
still, too; the blackbird appeared to doze on his peach 
twig; the kitten had settled down with eyes half closed 
and tail tucked under flank. 

The young man sat there with his letter in his hand 
and eyes lost in retrospection for a while. 

In his hand lay evidence that the gang which had 
followed him, and through which he no longer doubted 
that he had been robbed, was now in Paris. 

And yet he could not give this information to the 
Princess Naia. Here was a letter which he could not 
show. Something within him forbade it, some instinct 
which he did not trouble to analyse. 

And this instinct sent the letter into his breast 
pocket as a light sound came to his ears; and the 
next instant Rue Carew entered the further drawing- 
room. 

The little West Highland terrier looked up, wagged 
that section of him which did duty as a tail, and watched 
her as Neeland rose to seat her at the tea-table. 

“Sandy,” she said to the little dog, “if you care to 
say ‘Down with the Sultan,’ I shall bestow one lump 
of sugar upon you.” 

“Yap-yap!” said the little dog. 

312 


TOGETHER 


Give it to him, please ” Rue handed the sugar 

to Neeland, who delivered it gravely. 

“That’s because I want Sandy to like you,” she 
added. 

Neeland regarded the little dog and addressed him 
politely : 

“I shouldn’t dare call you Sandy on such brief ac- 
quaintance,” he said; “but may I salute you as Alex- 
ander.? Thank you, Alexander.” 

He patted the dog, whose tail made a slight, sketchy 
motion of approval. 

“Now,” said Rue Carew, “you are friends, and we 
shall all be very happy together, I’m sure. . . . Prin- 
cess Nai'a said we were not to wait. Tell me how to 
fix your tea.” 

He explained. About to begin on a buttered crois- 
sant^ he desisted abruptly and rose to receive the 
Princess, who entered with the light, springy step char- 
acteristic of her, gowned in one of those Parisian after- 
noon creations which never are seen outside that capi- 
tal, and never will be. 

“Far too charming to be real,” commented Neeland. 
“You are a pretty fairy story. Princess Nai’a, and your 
gown is a miracle tale which never was true.” 

He had not dared any such flippancy with Rue 
Carew, and the girl, who knew she was exquisitely 
gowned, felt an odd little pang in her heart as this 
young man’s praise of the Princess Mistchenka fell so 
easily and gaily from his lips. He might have noticed 
her gown, as it had been chosen with many doubts, much 
hesitation, and anxious consideration, for him. 

She flushed a little at the momentary trace of envy : 

“You are too lovely for words,” she said, rising. But 
the Princess gently forced her to resume her seat. 

613 


THE DARK STAR 


“If this young man has any discrimination,” she said, 
“he won’t hesitate with the golden apple, Ruhannah.” 

Rue laughed and flushed: 

“He hasn’t noticed my gown, and I wore it for him 
to notice,” she said. “But he was too deeply interested 
in Sandy and in tea and croissants ” 

“I did notice it !” said Neeland. And, to that young 
man’s surprise and annoyance, his face grew hot with 
embarrassment. What on earth possessed him to blush 
like a plow-boy! He suddenly felt like one, too, and 
turned sharply to the little dog, perplexed, irritated 
with himself and his behaviour. 

Behind him the Princess was saying: 

“The car is here. I shan’t stop for tea, dear. In 
case anything happens, I am at the Embassy.” 

“The Russian Embassy,” repeated Rue. 

“Yes. I may be a little late. We are to dine here 
en famille at eight. You will entertain James 

“James!” she repeated, addressing him. “Do you 
think Ruhannah sufficiently interesting to entertain 
you while I am absent?” 

But all his aplomb, his lack of self-consciousness, 
seemed to be gone ; and Neeland made some reply which 
seemed to him both obvious and duU. And hated him- 
self because he found himself so unaccountably abashed, 
realising that he was afraid of the opinions that this 
young girl might entertain concerning him. 

“I’m going,” said the Princess. Au revoir^ dear; 
good-bye, James ” 

She looked at him keenly when he turned to face her, 
smiled, still considering him as though she had unex- 
pectedly discovered a new feature in his expressive face. 

Whatever it was she discovered seemed to make her 
smile a trifle more mechanical; she turned slowly to 
814 


TOGETHER 


Kue Carew, hesitated, then, nodding a gay adieu, 
turned and left the room with Neeland at her elbow. 

“I’ll tuck you in,” he began ; but she said : 

“Thanks; Marotte will do that.” And left him at 
the door. 

When the car had driven away down the rue Soleil 
d’Or, Neeland returned to the little drawing-room 
where Rue was indulging Sandy with small bits of 
sugar. 

He took up cup and buttered croissant^ and for a 
little while nothing was said, except to Sandy who, 
upon invitation, repeated his opinion of the Sultan and 
snapped in the offered emolument with unsatiated satis- 
faction. 

To Rue Carew as well as to Neeland there seemed to 
be a slight constraint between them — something not en- 
tirely new to her since they had met again after two 
years. 

In the two years of her absence she had been very 
faithful to the memory of his kindness ; constant in the 
friendship which she had given him unasked — given him 
first, she sometimes thought, when she was a little child 
in a ragged pink frock, and he was a wonderful young 
man who had taken the trouble to cross the pasture 
and warn her out of range of the guns. 

He had always held his unique place in her memory 
and in her innocent affections; she had written to him 
again and again, in spite of his evident lack of interest 
in the girl to whom he had been kind. Rare, brief 
letters from him were read and reread, and laid away 
with her best-loved treasures. And when the prospect 
of actually seeing him again presented itself, she had 
been so frankly excited and happy that the Princess 
Mistchenka could find in the girl’s unfeigned delight 
315 


THE DARK STAR 


nothing except a young girl’s touching and slightly 
amusing hero-worship. 

But with her first exclamation when she caught sight 
of him at the terminal, something about her precon- 
ceived ideas of him, and her memory of him, was sud- 
dently and subtly altered, even while his name fell from 
her excited lips. 

Because she had suddenly realised that he was even 
more wonderful than she had expected or remembered, 
and that she did not know him at all — that she had no 
knowledge of this tall, handsome, well-built young fel- 
low with his sunburnt features and his air of smiling 
aloofness and of graceful assurance, almost fascinating 
and a trifle disturbing. 

Which had made the girl rather grave and timid, 
uncertain of the estimation in which he might hold her ; 
no longer so sure of any encouragement from him in 
her perfectly obvious attitude of a friend of former 
days. 

And so, shyly admiring, uncertain, inclined to warm 
response at any advance from this wonderful young 
man, the girl had been trying to adjust herself to this 
new incarnation of a certain James Neeland who had 
won her gratitude and who had awed her, too, from 
the time when, as a little girl, she had first beheld him. 

She lifted her golden-grey eyes to him ; a little unex- 
pected sensation not wholly unpleasant checked her 
speech for a moment. 

This was odd, even unaccountable. Such awkward- 
ness, such disquieting and provincial timidity wouldn’t 
do. 

‘‘Would you mind telling me a little about Brook- 
hollow.'^” she ventured. 

Certainly he would tell her. He laid aside his plate 

316 


TOGETHER 


and tea cup and told her of his visits there when he 
had walked over from Neeland’s Mills in the pleasant 
summer weather. 

Nothing had changed, he assured her; mill-dam and 
pond and bridge, and the rushing creek below were 
exactly as she knew them ; her house stood there at the 
crossroads, silent and closed in the sunshine, and under 
the high moon; pickerel and sunfish still haunted the 
shallow pond; partridges still frequented the alders 
and willows across her pasture; fireflies sailed through 
the summer night; and the crows congregated in the 
evening woods and talked over the events of the 
day. 

‘‘And my cat.^ You wrote that you would take care 
of Adoniram.” 

“Adoniram is an aged patriarch and occupies the 
place of honour in my father’s house,” he said. 

“He is well.?” 

“Oh, yes. He prefers his food cut finely, that is all.” 

“I don’t suppose he will live very long.” 

“He’s pretty old,” admitted Neeland. 

She sighed and looked out of the window at the kitten 
in the garden. And, after an interval of silence: 

“Our plot in the cemetery — is it — pretty.?” 

“It is beautiful,” he said, “under the great trees. It 
is well cared for. I had them plant the shrubs and 
flowers you mentioned in the list you sent me.” 

“Thank you.” She lifted her eyes again to him. “I 
wonder if you realise how^ — how splendid you have al- 
ways been to me.” 

Surprised, he reddened, and said awkwardly that he 
had done nothing. Where was the easy, gay and debo- 
naire assurance of this fluent young man.? He was 
finding nothing to say to Rue Carew, or saying what 
317 


THE DARK STAR 


he said as crudely and uncouthly as any haymaker in 
Gajfield. 

He looked up, exasperated, and met her eyes 
squarely. And Rue Carew blushed. 

They both looked elsewhere at once, but in the girl’s 
breast a new pulse beat ; a new instinct stirred, blindly 
importuning her for recognition ; a new confusion 
threatened the ordered serenity of her mind, yaguely 
menacing it with unaccustomed questions. 

Then the instinct of self-command returned; she 
found composure with an effort. 

‘‘You haven’t asked me,” she said, “about my work. 
Would you like to know.^” 

He said he would; and she told him — chary of self- 
praise, yet eager that he should know that her masters 
had spoken well of her. 

“And you know,” she said, “every week, now, I con- 
tribute a drawing to the illustrated paper I wrote to 
you about. I sent one off yesterday. But,” and she 
laughed shyly, “my nostrils are no longer filled with 
pride, because I am not contented with myself any 
more. I wish to do — oh, so much better work !” 

“Of course. Contentment in creative work means 
that we have nothing more to create.” 

She nodded and smiled: 

“The youngest born is the most tenderly cherished — 
until a new one comes. It is that way with me; I am 
all love and devotion and tenderness and self-sacrifice 
while fussing over my youngest. Then a still younger 
comes, and I become like a heartless cat and drive away 
all progeny except the newly born.” 

She sighed and smiled and looked up at him : 

“It can’t be helped, I suppose — that is, if one’s go- 
ing to have more progeny.” 

318 


TOGETHER 


‘‘It’s our penalty for producing. Only the newest 
counts. And those to come are to be miracles. But 
they never are.” 

She nodded seriously. 

“When there is a better light I should like to show 
you some of my studies,” she ventured. “No, not now. 
I am too vain to risk anything except the kindest of 
morning lights. Because I do hope for your ap- 
proval ” 

“I know they’re good,” he said. And, half laugh- 
ingly : “I’m beginning to find out that you’re a rather 
wonderful and formidable and overpowering girl, Hu- 
hannah.” 

“You don’t think so!” she exclaimed, enchanted. 
“Z>o you.? Oh, dear! Then I feel that I ought to show 

you my pictures and set you right immediately 

She sprang to her feet. “I’ll get them; I’ll be only a 
moment ” 

She was gone before he discovered anything to say, 
leaving him to walk up and down the deserted room 
and think about her as clearly as his somewhat dislo- 
cated thoughts permitted, until she returned with both 
arms full of portfolios, boards, and panels. 

“Now,” she said with a breathless smile, “you may 
mortify my pride and rebuke my vanity. I deserve it ; 
I need it; but Oh! — don’t be too severe ” 

“Are you serious he asked, looking up in astonish- 
ment from the first astonishing drawing in colour which 
he held between his hands. 

“Serious.? Of course ” She met his eyes anx- 

iously, then her own became incredulous and the swift 
colour dyed her face. 

“Do you like my work.?” she asked in a fainter 
voice. 


319 


THE DARK STAR 


*'Like it !” He continued to stare at the bewildering 
grace and colour of the work, turned to another and 
lifted it to the light: 

“What’s this?” he demanded. 

“A monotype.” 

“Fom did it.?” 

“Y-yes.” 

He seemed unable to take his eyes from it — from the 
exquisite figures there in the sun on the bank of the 
brimming river under an iris-tinted April sky. 

“What do you call it, Rue?” 

“Baroque.” 

He continued to scrutinise it in silence, then drew 
another carton prepared for oil from the sheaf on the 
sofa. 

Over autumn woods, in a windy sky, high-flying crows 
were buffeted and blown about. From the stark trees 
a few phantom leaves clung, fluttering; and the whole 
scene was possessed by sinuous, whirling forms — mere 
glimpses of supple, exquisite shapes tossing, curling, 
flowing through the naked woodland. A delicate fin- 
ger caught at a dead leaf here ; there frail arms clutched 
at a bending, wind-tossed bough ; grey sky and ghostly 
forest were obsessed, bewitched by the winnowing, driv- 
ing torrent of airy, half seen spirits. 

“The Winds,” he said mechanically. 

He looked at another — a sketch of the Princess Naia. 
And somehow it made him think of vast skies and end- 
less plains and the tumult of surging men and rattling 
lances. « 

“A Cossack,” he said, half to himself. “I never be- 
fore realised it.” And he laid it aside and turned to 
the next. 

“I haven’t brought any life studies or school draw- 

3^0 


TOGETHER 


ings,” she said. ‘‘I thought I’d just show you the — 
the results of them and of — of whatever is in me.” 

‘‘I’m just beginning to understand what is in you,” 
he said. 

“Tell me — ^what is it?” she asked, almost timidly. 

“Tell you?** He rose, stood by the window looking 
out, then turned to her : 

“What can I tell you?” he added with a short laugh. 
'“What have I to say to a girl who can do — these — 
after two years abroad?” 

Sheer happiness kept her silent. She had not dared 
hope for such approval. Even now she dared not per- 
mit herself to accept it. 

“I have so much to say,” she ventured, “and such an 
appalling amount of work before I can learn to say 
it ” 

“Your work is — stunning!” he said bluntly. 

“You don’t think so!” she exclaimed incredulously. 

“Indeed I do ! Look at what you have done in two 
years. Yes, grant all your aptitude and talents, just 
look what you’ve accomplished and where you are! 
Look at you yourself, too — what a stunning, bewilder- 
ing sort of girl you’ve developed into !” 

“Jim Neeland!” 

“Certainly, Jim Neeland, of Neeland’s Mills, who 
has had years more study than you have, more years 
of advantage, and who now is an illustrator without 
anything in particular to distinguish him from the sev- 
eral thousand other American illustrators ” 

“Jim! Your work is charming!” 

“How doF you know ?” 

“Because I have everything you ever did ! I sent for 
the magazines and cut them out; and they are in my 
scrapbook ” 


321 


THE DARK 4R 


She hesitated, breathless, smiling back at him out of 
her beautiful golden-grey eyes as though challenging 
him to doubt her loyalty or her belief in him. 

It was rather curious, too, for the girl was unusually 
intelligent and discriminating; and Neeland’s work was 
very, very commonplace. 

His face had become rather sober, but the smile still 
lurked on his lips. 

“Rue,” he said, “you are wonderfully kind. But I’m 
afraid I know about my work. I can draw pretty well, 
according to school standards ; and I approach pretty 
nearly the same standards in painting. Probably that 
is why I became an instructor at the Art League. But, 
so far, I haven’t done anything better than what is 
called ‘acceptable.’ ” 

“I don’t agree with you,” she said warmly. 

“It’s very kind of you not to.” He laughed and 
walked to the window again, and stood there looking out 
across the sunny garden. “Of course,” he added over 
his shoulder, “I expect to get along all right. Medi- 
ocrity has the best of chances, you know.” 

“You are not mediocre!” 

“No, I don’t think I am. But my work is. And, do 
you know,” he continued thoughtfully, “that is very 
often the case with a man who is better equipped to act 
than to tell with pen or pencil how others act. I’m 
beginning to be afraid that I’m that sort, because I’m 
afraid that I get more enjoyment out of doing things 
than in explaining with pencil and paint how they are 
done.” 

But Rue Carew, seated on the arm of her chair, slowly 
shook her head: 

“I don’t think that those are the only alternatives; 
do you ?” 


322 


TOGETHER 


“What other is there?” 

She said, a little shyly: 

“I think it is all right to do things if you like ; make 
exact pictures of how things are done if you choose; 
but it seems to me that if one really has anything to 
say, one should show in one’s pictures how things might 
be or ought to be. Don’t you?” 

He seemed surprised and interested in her logic, and 
she took courage to speak again in her pretty, depre- 
cating way: 

“If the function of painting and literature is to re- 
flect reality, a mirror would do as well, wouldn’t it? 
But to reflect what might be or what ought to be re- 
quires something more, doesn’t it?” 

“Imagination. Yes.” 

“A mind, anyway. . . . That is what I have thought ; 
but I’m not at all sure I am right.” 

“I don’t know. The mind ought to be a mirror re- 
flecting only the essentials of reality.” 

“And that requires imagination, doesn’t it?” she 
asked. “You see you have put it much better than I 
have.” 

“Have I?” he returned, smiling. “After a while 
you’ll persuade me that I possess your imagination. 
Rue. But I don’t.” 

“You do, Jim ” 

“I’m sorry; I don’t. You construct, I copy; you 
create, I ring changes on what already is ; you dissect, 
I skate over the surface of things — Oh, Lord ! I don’t 
know what’s lacking in me!” he added with gay pre- 
tence of despair which possibly was less feigned than 
real. “But I know this. Rue Carew! I’d rather ex- 
perience something interesting than make a picture of 
it. And I suppose that confession is fatal.” 


THE BARK STAB 


“Why, Jim?” 

“Because with me the pleasures of reality are substi- 
tuted for the pleasures of imagination. Not that I 
don’t like to draw and paint. But my ambition in 
painting is and always has been bounded by the visible. 
And, although that does not prevent me from apprecia- 
tion — from understanding and admiring your work, for 
example — it sets an impregnable limit to any such 
aspiration on my part ” 

His mobile and youthful features had become very 
grave ; he stood a moment with lowered head as though 
what he was thinking of depressed him ; then the quick 
smile came into his face and cleared it, and he said 
gaily: 

“I’m an artistic Dobbin; a reliable, respectable sort 
of Fido on whom editors can depend ; that’s all. Don’t 
feel sorry for me,” he added, laughing; “my work will 
be very much in demand.” 


CHAPTER XXIX 


EN FAMILLE 

The Princess Mistchenka came leisurely and grace- 
fully downstairs a little before eight that evening, much 
pleased with her hair, complexion, and gown. 

She found Neeland alone in the music-room, standing 
in the attitude of the conventional Englishman with his 
back to the fireless grate and his hands clasped loosely 
behind him, waiting to be led out and fed. 

The direct glance of undisguised admiration with 
which he greeted the Princess Nai'a confirmed the im- 
pression she herself had received from her mirror, and 
brought an additional dash of colour into her delicate 
brunette face. 

“Is there any doubt that you are quite the prettiest 
oh jet d*art in Paris ?” he enquired anxiously, taking her 
hand; and her dark eyes were very friendly as he sa- 
luted her finger-tips with the reverent and slightly ex- 
aggerated appreciation of a connoisseur in sculp- 
ture. 

“You hopeless Irishman,” she laughed. “It’s fortu- 
nate for women that you’re never serious, even with 
yourself.” 

“Princess Nai'a,” he remonstrated, “can nothing 
short of kissing you convince you of my sincerity 
and 

“Impudence.?^” she interrupted smilingly. “Oh, yes, 
I’m convinced, James, that, lacking other material, 
you’d make love to a hitching post.” 

S25 


THE DARK STAR 


His hurt expression and protesting gesture appealed 
to the universe against misinterpretation, but the 
Princess Mistchenka laughed again unfeelingly, and 
seated herself at the piano. 

“Some day,” she said, striking a lively chord or two, 
“I hope you’ll catch it, young man. You’re altogether 
too free and easy with your feminine friends. . . . 
What do you think of Rue Carew?” 

“An astounding and enchanting transformation. I 
haven’t yet recovered my breath.” 

“When you do, you’ll talk nonsense to the child, I 
suppose.” 

“Princess! Have I ever ” 

“You talk little else, dear friend, when God sends a 
pretty fool to listen 1” She looked up at him from the 
keyboard over which her hands were nervously wander- 
ing. “I ought to know,” she said; “/ also have lis- 
tened.” She laughed carelessly, but her glance lingered 
for an instant on his face, and her mirth did not sound 
quite spontaneous to either of them. 

Two years ago there had been an April evening after 
the opera, when, in taking leave of her in her little 
salon, her hand had perhaps retained his a fraction 
of a second longer than she quite intended ; and he had, 
inadvertently, kissed her. 

He had thought of it as a charming and agreeable 
incident; what the Princess Naia Mistchenka thought 
of it she never volunteered. But she so managed that 
he never again was presented with a similar oppor- 
tunity. 

Perhaps they both were thinking of this rather an- 
cient episode now, for his face was touched with a mis- 
chievously reminiscent smile, and she had lowered her 
head a trifle over the keyboard where her slim, ivory- 
326 


EN FAMILLE 


tinted hands still idly searched after elusive harmonies 
in the subdued light of the single lamp. 

“There’s a man dining with us,” she remarked, “who 
has the same irresponsible and casual views on life and 
manners which you entertain. No doubt you’ll get 
along very well together,” 

“Who is he.?” 

“A Captain Sengoun, one of our attaches. It’s likely 
you’ll find a congenial soul in this same Cossack whom 
we all call Alak.” She added maliciously: “His only 
logic is the impulse of the moment, and he is known as 
Prince Erlik among his familiars. Erlik was the Devil, 
you know ” 

He was announced at that moment, and came march- 
ing in — a dark, handsome, wiry young man with win- 
ning black eyes and a little black moustache just shad- 
owing his short upper lip — and a head shaped to con- 
tain the devil himself — the most reckless looking head, 
Neeland thought, that he ever had beheld in all his life. 

But the young fellow’s frank smile was utterly irre- 
sistible, and his straight manner of facing one, and of 
looking directly into the eyes of the person he addressed 
in his almost too perfect English, won any listener im- 
mediately. 

He bowed formally over Princess Nai'a’s hand, turned 
squarely on Neeland when he was named to the Ameri- 
can, and exchanged a firm clasp with him. Then, to 
the Princess: 

“I am late.? No.? Fancy, Princess — that great 
booby, Izzet Bey, must stop me at the club, and I ex- 
ceedingly pressed to dress and entirely out of humour 
with all Turks. ^Eh hien, mon vieuw^ said he in his 
mincing manner of a nervous pelican, ‘they’re warming 
up the Balkan boilers with Austrian pine. But I hear 

sn 


THE DARK STAR 


they’re full of snow.’ And I said to him: ‘Snow boils 
very nicely if the fire is sufficiently persistent !’ And I 
think Izzet Bey will find it so !” — with a quick laugh of 
explanation to Neeland: “He meant Russian snow, 
you see; and that boils beautifully if they keep on 
stoking the boiler with Austrian fuel.” 

The Princess shrugged: 

“What schoolboy repartee! Why did you answer 
him at all, Alak.?” 

“Well,” explained the attache, “as I was due here at 
eight I hadn’t time to take him by the nose, had I ?” 

Rue Carew entered and went to the Princess to make 
amends : 

“I’m so sorry to be late!” — turned to smile at Nee- 
land, then offered her hand to the Russian. “How do 
you do. Prince Erlik.?” she said with the careless and 
gay cordiality of old acquaintance. “I heard you say 
something about Colonel Izzet Bey’s nose as I came 
in.” 

Captain Sengoun bowed over her slender white hand : 

“The Mohammedan nose of Izzet Bey is an admirable 
bit of Oriental architecture, Miss Carew. Why should 
it surprise you to hear me extol its bizarre beauty.?^” 

“Anyway,” said the girl, “I’m contented that you left 
devilry for revelry.” And, Marotte announcing din- 
ner, she took the arm of Captain Sengoun as the 
Princess took Neeland’s. 

Like all Russians and some Cossacks, Prince Alak ate 
and drank as though it were the most delightful experi- 
ence in life ; and he did it with a whole-souled heartiness 
and satisfaction that was flattering to any hostess and 
almost fascinating to anybody observing him. 

His teeth were even and very white; his appetite 
828 


EN FAMILLE 


splendid : when he did his goblet the honour of noticing 
it at all, it was to drain it ; when he resumed knife and 
fork he used them as gaily, as gracefully, and as thor- 
oughly as he used his sabre on various occasions. 

He had taken an instant liking to Neeland, who 
seemed entirely inclined to return it; and he talked a 
great deal to the American but with a nice division of 
attention for the two ladies on either side. 

‘‘You know, Alak,” said the Princess, “you need not 
torture yourself by trying to converse with discretion; 
because Mr. Neeland knows about many matters which 
concern us all.” 

“Ah ! That is delightful ! And indeed I was already 
quite assured of Mr. Neeland’s intelligent sympathy in 
the present state of European affairs.” 

“He’s done a little more than express sympathy,” 
remarked the Princess; and she gave a humorous out- 
line of Neeland’s part in the affair of the olive-wood 
box. 

“Fancy!” exclaimed Captain Sengoun. “That im- 
pudent canaille! Yes ; I heard at the Embassy what 
happened to that accursed box this morning. Of course 
it is a misfortune, but as for me, personally, I don’t 
care ” 

“It doesn’t happen to concern you personally. Prince 
Erlik,” said Princess Nai’a dryly. 

“No,” he admitted, unabashed by the snub, “it does 
not touch me. Cavalry cannot operate on the Gal- 
lipoli Peninsula. Therefore, God be thanked, I shall be 
elsewhere when the snow boils.” 

Rue tuned to Neeland: 

“His one idea of diplomacy and war is a thousand 
Kuban Cossacks at full speed.” 

“And that is an excellent idea, is it not, Kazatciika.?” 

829 


THE DARK STAR 


he said, smiling impudently at the Princess, who only 
laughed at the familiarity. 

“I hope,” added Captain Sengoun, “that I may live 
to gallop through a few miles of diplomacy at full 
speed before they consign me to the Opolchina.” Turn- 
ing to Neeland, “The reserve — the old man’s home, you 
know. God forbid!” And he drained his goblet and 
looked defiantly at Rue Carew. 

“A Cossack is a Cossack,” said the Princess, “be he 
Terek or Kuban, Don or Astrachan, and they all know 
as much about diplomacy as Prince Erlik — or Izzet 
Bey’s nose. . . . James, you are unusually silent, dear 
friend. Are you regretting those papers.'^” 

“It’s a pity,” he said. But he had not been thinking 
of the lost papers; Rue Carew’s beauty preoccupied 
him. The girl was in black, which made her skin daz- 
zling, and reddened the chestnut colour of her hair. 

Her superb young figure revealed an unsuspected 
loveliness where the snowy symmetry of neck and shoul- 
ders and arms was delicately accented by the filmy 
black of her gown. 

He had never seen such a beautiful girl; she seemed 
more wonderful, more strange, more aloof than ever. 
And this was what preoccupied and entirely engaged his 
mind, and troubled it, so that his smile had a tendency 
to become indefinite and his conversation mechanical at 
times. 

Captain Sengoun drained one more of numerous gob- 
lets; gazed sentimentally at the Princess, then with 
equal sentiment at Rue Carew. 

“As for me,” he said, with a carelessly happy ges- 
ture toward the infinite, “plans are plans, and if they’re 
stolen, tcmt pis! But there are always Tartars in Tar- 
tary and Turks in Turkey. And, while there are, 
330 


EN FAMILLE 


there’s hope for a poor devil of a Cossack who wants to 
say a prayer in St. Sophia before he’s gathered to his 
ancestors.” 

‘‘Have any measures been taken at your Embassy to 
trace the plans?” asked Neeland of the Princess. 

“Of course,” she said simply. 

“Plans,” remarked Sengoun, “are not worth the 
tcherkeske of an honest Caucasian! A Khirgize pony 
knows more than any diplomat ; and my magaika is bet- 
ter than both!” 

“All the same,” said Rue Carew, “with those stolen 
plans in your Embassy, Prince Erlik, you might even 
gallop a sotma of your Cossacks to the top of Achi- 
Baba.” 

“By heaven ! I’d like to try !” he exclaimed, his black 
eyes ablaze. 

“There are dongas'* observed the Princess dryly. 

“I know it. There are dongas every twenty yards; 
and Turkish gorse that would stop a charging bull! 
My answer is, mount! trot! gallop! and hurrah for 
Achi-Baba !” 

“Very picturesque, Alak. But wouldn’t it be nicer to 
be able to come back again and tell us all about it?” 

“As for that,” he said with his full-throated, engag- 
ing laugh, “no need to worry. Princess, for the news- 
papers would tell the story. What is this Gallipoli 
country, anyway, that makes our Chancellery wag its 
respected head and frown and whisper in corners and 
take little notes on its newly laundered cuffs? 

“I know the European and Asiatic shores with their 
forts — Kilid Bahr, Chimilik, Kum Kale, Dardanos. I 
know what those Germans have been about with their 
barbed wire and mobile mortar batteries. What do we 
want of their plans, then ” 


331 


THE DARK STAR 


“Nothing, Prince Erlik!” said Rue, laughing. “It 
suffices that you be appointed adviser in general to his 
majesty the Czar.” 

Sengoun laughed with all his might. 

“And an excellent thing that would be. Miss Carew. 
What we need in Russia,” he added with a bow to the 
Princess, “are, first of all, more Kazatchkee, then my- 
self to execute any commands with which my incom- 
parable Princess might deign to honour me.” 

“Then I command you to go and smoke cigarettes in 
the music-room and play some of your Cossack songs 
on the piano for Mr. Neeland until Miss Carew and I 
rejoin you,” said the Princess, rising. 

At the door there was a moment of ceremony; then 
Sengoun, passing his arm through Neeland’s with boy- 
ish confidence that his quickly given friendship was wel- 
come, sauntered off to the music-room where presently 
he was playing the piano and singing some of the en- 
trancing songs of his own people in a voice that, culti- 
vated, might have made a fortune for him: 


‘‘We are but horsemen. 

And God is great. 

We hunt on hill and fen 
The fierce Kerait, 

Naiman and Eighur, 
Tartar and Khiounnou, 
Leopard and Tiger 
Flee at our view-halloo; 
We are but horsemen 
Cleansing the hill and fen 
Where wild men hide — 
Wild beasts abide, 

Mongol and Baiaghod, 
Turkoman, Tai'djigod, 

Each in his den. 

332 


EN FAMILLE 


The skies are blue. 

The plains are wide, 

Over the fens the horsemen ride!** 

Still echoing the wild air, and playing with both 
hands in spite of the lighted cigarette between his fin- 
gers, he glanced over his shoulder at Neeland: 

“A very old, old song,” he explained, “made in the 
days of the great invasion when all the world was fight- 
ing anybody who would fight back. I made it into Eng- 
lish. It’s quite nice, I think.” 

His naive pleasure in his own translation amused 
Neeland immensely, and he said that he considered it a 
fine piece of verse. 

“Yes,” said Sengoun, “but you ought to hear a love 
song I made out of odd fragments I picked up here and 
there. I call it ^Samarccmd'; or rather 'Samarcand 
MahfoiLzeh/ which means, ‘Samarcand the Well 
Guarded’ : 

** ‘Outside my guarded door 

Whose voice repeats my name?* 

‘The voice thou hast heard before 
Under the white moon’s flame! 

And thy name is my song ; and my song is ever the same !* 

“'How many warriors, dead. 

Have sung the song you sing? 

Some by an arrow were sped; 

Some by a dagger’s sting.* 

‘Like a bird in the night is my song — a bird on the wing !* 

“ ‘Ahmed and Yucouf bled! 

A dead king blocks my door!* 

‘If thy halls and walls be red. 

Shall Samarcand ask more? 

Or my song shall cleanse thy house or my heart*s blood 
foul thy floor!* 


333 


THE DARK STAR 


“‘Now hast thou conquered me! 

Humbly thy captive, I. 

My soul escapes to thee; 

My body here must lie; 

Ride! — ^with thy song, and my soul in thy arms; and 
let me die.’ ” 

Sengoun, still playing, flung over his shoulder: 

“A Tartar song from the Turcoman. I borrowed it 
and put new clothes on it. Nice, isn’t it?” 

“Enchanting!” replied Neeland, laughing in spite of 
himself. 

Rue Carew, with her snowy shoulders and red-gold 
hair, came drifting in, consigning them to their seats 
with a gesture, and giving them to understand that she 
had come to hear the singing. 

So Sengoun continued his sketchy, haphazard recital, 
waving his cigarette now and then for emphasis, and 
conversing frequently over his shoulder while Rue Ca- 
rew leaned on the piano and gravely watched his 
nimble fingers alternately punish and caress the key- 
board. 

After a little while the Princess Mistchenka came in 
saying that she had letters to write. They conversed, 
however, for nearly an hour before she rose, and Cap- 
tain Sengoun gracefully accepted his conge. 

“I’ll walk with you, if you like,” suggested Neeland. 

“With pleasure, my dear fellow ! The night is beau- 
tiful, and I am just beginning to wake up.” 

“Ask Marotte to give you a key, then,” suggested the 
Princess, going. At the foot of the stairs, however, she 
paused to exchange a few words with Captain Sengoun 
in a low voice; and Neeland, returning with his latch- 
key, went over to where Rue stood by the lamplit table 
absently looking over an evening paper. 

334 


EN FAMILLE 


As he came up beside her, the girl lifted her beautiful, 
golden-grey eyes. 

‘‘Are you going out?” 

“Yes, I thought I’d walk a bit with Captain Sen- 
goun.” 

“It’s rather a long distance to the Russian Embassy. 

Besides ” She hesitated, and he waited. She 

glanced absently over the paper for a moment, then, 
not raising her eyes: “I’m — I — the theft of that box 
today — perhaps my nerves have suffered a little — but 
do you think it quite prudent for you to go out alone 
at night 

“Why, I am going out with Captain Sengoun!” he 
said, surprised at her troubled face. 

“But you will have to return alone.” 

He laughed, but they both had flushed a little. 

Had it been any other woman in the world, he had 
not hesitated gaily to challenge the shy and charming 
solicitude expressed in his behalf — make of it his capi- 
tal, his argument to force that pretty duel to which 
one day, all youth is destined. 

He found himself now without a word to say, nor 
daring to entertain any assumption concerning the 
words she had uttered. 

Dumb, awkward, afraid, he became conscious that 
something in this young girl had silenced within him 
any inclination to gay effrontery, any talent for casual 
gallantry. Her lifted eyes, with their clear, half shy 
regard, had killed all fluency of tongue in him — slain 
utterly that light good-humour with which he had en- 
countered women heretofore. 

He said: 

“I hadn’t thought myself in any danger whatever, 
is there any reason for me to expect further trouble?” 
335 


THE DARK STAB 


Rue raised her troubled eyes : 

‘‘Has it occurred to you that they might think you- 
capable of redrawing parts of the stolen plans from 
memory?” 

“It had never occurred to me,” he admitted, sur- 
prised. “But I believe I could remember a little about 
one or two of the more general maps.” 

“The Princess means to ask you, tomorrow, to draw 
for her what you can remember. And that made me 
think about you now — ^whether the others might not 
suspect you capable of remembering enough to do them 
harm. . . . And so — do you think it prudent to go 
out tonight?” 

“Yes,” he replied, quite sincerely, “it is all right. 
You see I know Paris very well.” 

She did not look convinced, but Sengoun came up 
and she bade them both good night and went away with 
the Princess Mistchenka. 

As, arm in arm, the two young men sauntered around 
the corner of the rue Soleil d’Or, two men who had been 
sitting on a marble bench beside the sun-dial fountain 
rose and stroUed after them. 


CHAPTER XXX 


JARDIN RUSSE 

At midnight the two young men had not yet parted. 
For, as Sengoun explained, the hour for parting was 
already past, and it was too late to consider it now. 
And Neeland thought so, too, what with the laughter 
and the music, and the soft night breezes to counsel 
folly, and the city’s haunting brilliancy stretching away 
in bewitching perspectives still unexplored. 

From every fairy lamp the lustrous capital signalled 
to youth her invitation, her challenge, and her menace. 
Like some jewelled sorceress — some dreaming Circe by 
the river bank, pondering new spells — so Paris lay in 
all her mystery and beauty under the July stars. 

Sengoun, his arm through Neeland’s, had become af- 
fectionately confidential. He explained that he really 
was a nocturnal creature; that now he had completely 
waked up; that his habits were due to a passion for 
astronomy, and that the stars he had discovered at odd 
hours of the early morning were more amazing th^n 
any celestial bodies ever before identified. 

But Neeland, whose head and heart were already 
occupied, declined to study any constellations ; and they 
drifted through the bluish lustre of white arc-lights 
and the clustered yellow glare of incandescent lamps 
toward a splash of iridescent glory among the chestnut 
trees, where music sounded and tables stood amid flow- 
ers and grass and little slender fountains which bal- 
anced silver globes upon their jets. 

837 


THE DARK STAR 


The waiters were in Russian peasant dress; the or- 
chestra was Russian gipsy; the bill of fare was Rus- 
sian ; and there was only champagne to be had. 

Balalaika orchestra and spectators were singing some 
evidently familiar song — one of those rushing, clatter- 
ing, clashing choruses of the Steppes ; and Sengoun 
sang too, with all his might, when he and Neeland were 
seated, which was thirsty work. 

Two fascinating Russian gipsy girls were dancing — 
slim, tawny, supple creatures in their scarlet and their 
jingling bangles. After a deafening storm of applause, 
their flashing smiles swept the audience, and, linking 
arms, they sauntered off between the tables under the 
trees. 

“I wish to dance,” remarked Sengoun. “My legs 
will kick over something if I don’t.” 

They were playing an American dance — a sort of 
skating step ; people rose ; couple after couple took the 
floor; and Sengoun looked around for a partner. He 
discovered no eligible partner likely to favour him with- 
out a quarrel with her escort ; and he was debating with 
Neeland whether a row would be worth while, when the 
gipsy girls sauntered by. 

“Oh,” he said gaily, “a pretty Tzigane can save my 
life if she will!” 

And the girls laughed and Sengoun led one of them 
out at a reckless pace. 

The other smiled and looked at Neeland, and, seating 
herself, leaned on the table watching the whirl on the 
floor. 

“Don’t you dance.?” she asked, with a sidelong glance 
out of her splendid black eyes. 

“Yes ; but I’m likely to do most of my dancing on 
your pretty feet.” 


338 


JARDIN RUSSE 


*^Merci! In that case I prefer a cigarette.” 

She selected one from his case, lighted it, folded her 
arms on the table, and continued to gaze at the dancers. 

‘‘I’m tired tonight,” she remarked. 

“You dance beautifully.” 

“Thank you.” 

Sengoun, flushed and satisfied, came back with his 
gipsy partner when the music ceased. 

“Now I hope we may have some more singing!” he 
exclaimed, as they seated themselves and a waiter filled 
their great, bubble-shaped glasses. 

And he did sing at the top of his delightful voice 
when the balalaikas swept out into a ringing and fa- 
miliar song, and the two gipsy girls sang, too — laughed 
and sang, holding the frosty goblets high in the spark- 
ling light. 

It was evident to Neeland that the song was a fa- 
vourite one with Russians. Sengoun was quite over- 
come; they all touched goblets. 

“Brava, my little Tziganes !” he said with happy emo- 
tion. “My little compatriots! My little tawny pan- 
thers of the Caucasus ! What do you call yourselves 
in this bandbox of a country where two steps backward 
take you across any frontier.^” 

His dancing partner laughed till her sequins jingled 
from throat to ankle: 

“They call us Fifi and Nini,” she replied. “Ask your- 
self why!” 

“For example,” added the other girl, “we rise from 
this table and thank you. There is nothing further. 
C'est flni — c^est Fifi — Nmi — comprenez-vousy Frmce 
ErliJc?^’ 

“Hi! What.J^” exclaimed Sengoun. “I’m known, it 
appears, even to that devilish name of mine!” 

339 


THE DARK STAB 


Everybody laughed. 

‘‘After all,” he said, more soberly, “it’s a gipsy’s 
trade to know everybody and everything. Tiens!** 
He slapped a goldpiece on the table. “A kiss apiece 
against a louis that you don’t know my comrade’s name 
and nation!” 

The girl called Nini laughed: 

“We’re quite willing to kiss you. Prince Erlik, but 
a louis d’or is not a copper penny. And your comrade 
is American and his name is Tchames.” 

“James!” exclaimed Sengoun. 

“I said so — Tchames.” 

“What else.?” 

“Nilan.” 

“Neeland.?” 

“I said so.” 

Sengoun placed the goldpiece in Nini’s hand and 
looked at Neeland with an uncomfortable laugh. 

“I ought to know a gipsy, but they always astonish 

me, these Tziganes. Tell us some more, Nini ” 

He beckoned a waiter and pointed indignantly at the 
empty goblets. 

The girls, resting their elbows on the tables, framed 
their faces with slim and dusky hands, and gazed at 
Sengoun out of humorous, half-veiled eyes. 

“What do you wish to know, Prince Erlik.?” they 
asked mockingly. 

“Well, for example, is my country really mobilis- 
ing.?” 

“Since the twenty-fifth.” 

**Ti€ns! And old Papa Kaiser and the Clown Prince 
Footit — what do they say to that?” 

“It must be stopped.” 

“What! Sang dieu! We must stop mobilising 

340 


JABDIN RUSSE 


against the Austrians? But we are not going to stop, 
you know, while Francis Joseph continues to pull faces 
at poor old Servian Peter!” 

Neeland said: 

“The evening paper has it that Austria is more rea- 
sonable and that the Servian affair can be arranged. 
There will be no war,” he added confidently. 

“There will be war,” remarked Nini with a shrug of 
her bare, brown shoulders over which her hair and her 
gilded sequins fell in a bright mass. 

“Why?” asked Neeland, smiling. 

“Why? Because, for one thing, you have brought 
war into Europe!” 

“Come, now! No mystery!” said Sengoun gaily. 
“Explain how my comrade has brought war into Eu- 
rope, you little fraud !” 

Nini looked at Neeland: 

“What else except papers was in the box you lost.?” 
she asked coolly. 

Neeland, very red and uncomfortable, gazed back at 
the girl without replying; and she laughed at him, 
showing her white teeth. 

“You brought the Yellow Devil into Europe, M’sieu 
Nilan! Erlik, the Yellow Demon. When he travels 
there is unrest. Where he rests there is war!” 

“You’re very clever,” retorted Neeland, quite out of 
countenance. 

“Yes, we are,” said Fifi, with her quick smile. “And 
who but M’sieu Nilan should admit it.?” 

“Very clever,” repeated Neeland, still amazed and 
profoundly uneasy. “But this Yellow Devil you say I 
brought into Europe must have been resting in 
America, then. And, if so, why is there no war 
there?” 


S4il 


THE DARK STAR 


^‘There would have been — with Mexico. You brought 
the Yellow Demon here, but just in time !” 

‘‘All right. Grant that, then. But — perhaps he was 
a long time resting in America. What about that, 
pretty gipsy?” 

The girl shrugged again: 

“Is your memory so poor, M’sieu Nilan? What has 
your country done but fight since Erlik rested among 
your people? You fought in Samoa; in Hawaii; your 
warships went to Chile, to Brazil, to San Domingo; 
the blood of your soldiers and sailors was shed in Hayti, 
in Cuba, in the Philippines, in China ” 

“Good Lord!” exclaimed Neeland. “That girl is 
dead right!” 

Sengoun threw back his handsome head and laughed 
without restraint; and the gipsies laughed, too, their 
beautiful eyes and teeth flashing under their black cas- 
cades of unbound hair. 

“Show me your palms,” said Nini, and drew Sen- 
goun’s and Neeland’s hands across the table, holding 
them in both of hers. 

“See,” she added, nudging Fifi with her shoulder, 
“both of them born under the Dark Star! It is war 
they shall live to see — ^war!” 

“Under the Dark Star, Erlik,” repeated the other 
girl, looking closely into the two palms, “and there is 
war there!” 

“And death?” inquired Sengoun gaily. “I don’t 
care, if I can lead a sotnia up Achi-Baba and twist the 
gullet of the Padisha before I say Fifi — Nini !” 

The gipsies searched his palm with intent and bril- 
liant gaze. 

**Zutr* said Fifi. **Je ne vois rien que dTamotir ef 
la guerre auw dames T* 


342 


JAR DIN RUSSE 


'‘T^en fais pas!'^ laughed Sengoun. ‘‘I ask no further 
favour of Fortune; I’ll manage my regiment myself. 
And, listen to me, Fifi,” he added with a frightful 
frown, “if the war you predict doesn’t arrive. I’ll come 
back and beat you as though you were married to a 
Turk!” 

While they still explored his palm, whispering to- 
gether at intervals, Sengoun caught the chorus of the 
air which the orchestra was playing, and sang it lustily 
and with intense pleasure to himself. 

Neeland, unquiet to discover how much these casual 
strangers knew about his own and intimate affairs, had 
become silent and almost glum. 

But the slight gloom which invaded him came from 
resentment toward those people who had followed him 
from Brookhollow to Paris, and who, in the very mo- 
ment of victory, had snatched that satisfaction from 
him. 

He thought of Kestner and of Breslau — of Sche- 
herazade, and the terrible episode in her stateroom. 

Except that he had seized the box in the Brookhollow 
house, there was nothing in his subsequent conduct on 
which he could plume himself. He could not congratu- 
late himself on his wisdom; sheer luck had carried him 
through as far as the rue Soleil d’Or — mere chance, and 
that capricious fortune which sometimes convoys the 
stupid, fatuous, and astigmatic. 

Then he thought of Rue Carew. And, in his bosom, 
an intense desire to distinguish himself began to burn. 

If there were any way on earth to trace that accursed 
box 

He turned abruptly and looked at the two gipsies, 
who had relinquished Sangoun’s hand and who were 
still conversing together in low tones while Sangoun 


THE DARK STAB 


beat time on the jingling table ton and sang joyously 
at the top of his baritone voice : 

**Eh, zoum — zoum — zoum! 

Bourn — bourn — bourn ! 

Here’s to the Artillery 
Gaily riding by! 

Fetch me a distillery. 

Let me drink it dry — 

Fill me full of sillery! 

Here’s to the artillery! 

Zoum — zoum — zoum ! 

Bourn — bourn — ^boum !” 


«Fifi!” 

‘‘You’re so clever ! Where is that Yellow Devil now ?” 

“Pouf !” giggled Fifi. “On its way to Berlin, pardieH 

“That’s easy to say. Tell me something else more 
expensive.” 

Nini said, surprised: 

“What we know is free to Prince Erlik’s friend. Did 
you think we sell to Russians?” 

“I don’t know anything about you or where you get 
your information,” said Neeland. “I suppose you’re 
in the Secret Service of the Russian Government.” 

“Moti ami, Nilan,” said Fifi, smiling, “we should feel 
lonely outside the Secret Service. Few in Europe are 
outside — few in the world, fewer in the half-world. As 
for us Tziganes, who belong to neither, the business of 
everybody becomes our secret to sell for a silver piece 
— but not to Russians in the moment of peril! . . , 
Nor to their comrades. . • . What do you desire to 
know, comrade?** 

“Anything,” he said simply, “that might help me to 
regain what I have lost.” 

SU 


JARDIN RUSSE 


And what do you suppose!” exclaimed Fifi, opening 
her magnificent black eyes very wide. “Did you im- 
agine that nobody was paying any attention to what 
happened in the rue Soleil d’Or this noon?” 

Nini laughed. 

“The word flew as fast as the robber’s taxicab. How 
many thousand secret friends to the Triple Entente do 
you suppose knew of it half an hour after it happened? 
From the Trocadero to Montparnasse, from the Point 
du Jour to Charenton, from the Bois to the Bievre, the 
word flew. Every taxicab, omnibus, sapi/n, every ba- 
teaurmouche^ every train that left any terminal was 
watched. 

“Five embassies and legations were instantly under 
redoubled surveillance ; hundreds of cafes, bars, restau- 
rants, hotels; all the theatres, gardens, cabarets, bras- 
series, 

“Your pigs of Apaches are not neglected, va! But, 
to my idea, they got out of Paris before we watchers 
knew of the affair at all — in an automobile, perhaps — 
perhaps by rail. God knows,” said the girl, looking 
absently at the dancing which had begun again. “But 
if we ever lay our eyes on Minna Minti, we wear toys 
in our garters which will certainly persuade her to take 
a little stroll with us.” 

After a silence, Neeland said: 

“Is Minna Minti then so well known?” 

“Not at the Opera Comique,” replied Fifi with a 
shrug, “but since then.” 

“An artiste, that woman 1” added Nini. “Why deny 
it? It appears that she has twisted more than one red 
button out of a broadcloth coat.” 

“She’ll get the Seraglio medal for this day’s work,” 
said Fifi. 


345 


THE DARK STAR 


I 


“Or the croiiV-de-fer,** added Nini. “Ah, zut! She 
annoys me.” 

“Did you ever hear of a place called the Cafe des 
Bulgars?” asked Neeland, carelessly. 

“Yes.” 

“What sort of place is it.^” 

“Like any other.” 

“Quite respectable .J”’ 

“Perfectly,” said Nini, smiling. “One drinks good 
beer there.” 

“Munich beer,” added Fifi. 

“Then it is watched.?” asked Neeland. 

“All German cafes are watched. Otherwise, it is not 
suspected.” 

Sengoun, who had been listening, shook his head. 
“There’s nothing to interest us at the Cafe des Bul- 
gars,” he said. Then he summoned a waiter and pointed 
tragically at the empty goblets. 


CHAPTER XXXI 


THE CAFE DES BULGAKS 

Their adieux to Fifi and Nini were elaborate and 
complicated by bursts of laughter. The Tziganes rec- 
ommended Captain Sengoun to go home and seek fur- 
ther adventures on his pillow; and had it not been for 
the gay babble of the fountain and the persistent per- 
fume of flowers, he might have followed their advice. 

It was after the two young men had left the Jardin 
Russe that Captain Sengoun positively but affection- 
ately refused to relinquish possession of Neeland’s arm. 

“Dear friend,” he explained, “I am just waking up 
and I do not wish to go to bed for days and days.” 

“But I do,” returned Neeland, laughing. “Where do 
you want to go now. Prince Erlik?” 

The champagne was singing loudly in the Cossack’s 
handsome head ; the distant brilliancy beyond the Place 
de la Concorde riveted his roving eyes. 

“Over there,” he said joyously. “Listen, old fellow, 
I’ll teach you the skating step as we cross the Place! 
Then, in the first Bal, you shall try it on the fairest 
form since Helen fell and Troy burned — or Troy fell 
and Helen burned — it’s all the same, old fellow — what 
you call fifty-fifty, eh.^” 

Neeland tried to free his arm — to excuse himself; 
two policemen laughed ; but Sengoun, linking his arm 
more firmly in Neeland’s, crossed the Place in a series 
of Dutch rolls and outer edges, in which Neeland was 
compelled to join. The Russian was as light and grace- 
S47 


THE DARK STAR 


ful on his feet as one of the dancers of his own country ; 
Neeland’s knowledge of skating aided his own less agile 
steps. There was sympathetic applause from passing 
taxis and fiacres; and they might, apparently, have had 
any number of fair partners for the asking, along the 
way, except for Sengoun’s headlong dive toward the 
brightest of the boulevard lights beyond. 

In the rue Royal, however, Sengoun desisted with 
sudden access of dignity, remarking that such gambols 
were not worthy of the best traditions of his Embassy ; 
and he attempted to bribe the drivers of a couple of 
hansom cabs to permit him and his comrade to take 
the reins and race to the Arc de Triomphe. 

Failing in this, he became profusely autobiographi- 
cal, informing Neeland of his birth, education, aims, 
aspirations. 

‘‘When I was twelve,” he said, “I had known already 
the happiness of the battle-shock against Kurd, Mon- 
gol, and Tartar. At eighteen my ambition was to slap 
the faces of three human monsters. I told everybody 
that I was making arrangements to do this, and I 
started for Brusa after my first monster — ^Fehim Ef- 
fendi — but the Vali telegraphed to the Grand Vizier, 
and the Grand Vizier ran to Abdul the Damned, and 
Abdul yelled for Sir Nicholas O’Connor; and they 
caught me in the Pera Palace and handed me over to 
my Embassy.” 

Neeland shouted with laughter: 

“Who were the other monsters he asked. 

“The other two whose countenances I desired to slap .? 
Oh, one was Abdul Houda, the Sultan’s star-reader, 
who chattered about my Dark Star horoscope in the 
Yildiz. And the other was the Sultan.” 

“Who.?” 


348 


THE CAFE DES BULGAKS 


“Abdul Hamid.” 

“What; You wished to slap his face.'*” 

“Certainly. But Kutchuk Said and Kiamil Pasha 
requested me not to — accompanied by gendarmes.” 

“You’d have lost your life,” remarked Neeland. 

“Yes. But then war would surely have come, and 
today my Emperor would have held the Dardanelles 
where the Turkish flag is now flying over German guns 
and German gunners.” 

He shook his head: 

“Great mistake on my part,” he muttered. “Should 
have pulled Abdul’s lop ears. Now, everything in Tur- 
key is ‘Yasak’ except what Germans do and say; and 
God knows we are farther than ever from St. Sophia. 
. . . I’m very thirsty with thinking so much, old fel- 
low. Did you ever drink German champagne.'*” 

“I believe not ” 

“Come on, then. You shall drink several gallons and 
never feel it. It’s the only thing German I could ever 
swallow.” 

“Prince Erlik, you have had considerable refresh- 
ment already.” 

“CopaeX Ven fais pas!** 

The spectacle of two young fellows in evening dress, 
in a friendly tug-of-war under the lamp-posts of the 
Boulevard, amused the passing populace ; and Sengoun, 
noticing this, was inclined to mount a boulevard bench 
and address the wayfarers, but Neeland pulled him 
down and persuaded him into a quieter street, the rue 
Vilna. 

“There’s a German place, now !” exclaimed Sengoun, 
delighted. 

And Neeland, turning to look, perceived the illumi- 
nated sign of the Cafe des Bulgars. 

349 


THE DARK STAR 


German champagne had now become Sengoun’s fixed 
idea ; nothing could dissuade him from it, nothing per- 
suade him into a homeward bound taxi. So Neeland, 
•with a rather hazy idea that he ought not to do it, en- 
tered the cafe with Senguon; and they seated them- 
selves on a leather wall-lounge before one of the numer- 
ous marble-topped tables. 

“Listen,” he said in a low voice to his companion, 
“this is a German cafe, and we must be careful what 
we say. I’m not any too prudent and I may forget this ; 
but don’t your 

“Quite right, old fellow!” replied Sengoun, giving 
him an owlish look. “I must never forget I’m a diplo- 
mat among these sales Boches ” 

“Be careful, Sengoun ! That expression is not diplo- 
matic.” 

“Careful is the word, mon vieux^ returned the other 
loudly and cheerfully. “I’ll bet you a dollar, three 
kopeks, and two sous that I go over there and kiss the 
cashier ” 

“No! Be a real diplomat, Sengoun!” 

“I’m sorry you feel that way, Neeland, because she’s 
unusually pretty. And we might establish a triple en- 
tente until you find some Argive Helen to quadruple it. 
Aha ! Here is our German champagne ! Positively the 
only thing German a Russian can ” 

“Listen! This won’t do. People are looking at 
us ” 

“Right, old fellow — always right! You know, Nee- 
land, this friendship of ours is the most precious, most 
delightful, and most inspiring experience of my life. 
Here’s a full goblet to our friendship! Hurrah! As 
for Enver Pasha, may Erlik seize him !” 

After they had honoured the toast, Sengoun looked 

350 


THE CAFE DES BULGARS 


about him pleasantly, receptive, ready for any eventu- 
ality. And observing no symptoms of any eventuality 
whatever, he suggested creating one. 

“Dear comrade,” he said, “I think I shall arise and 
make an incendiary address ” 

“No r 

“Very well, if you feel that way about it. But there 
is another way to render the evening agreeable. You 
see that sideboard.^” he continued, pointing to a huge 
carved buffet piled to the ceiling with porcelain and 
crystal. “What will you wager that I can not push it 
over with one hand.^” 

But Neeland declined the wager with an impatient 
gesture, and kept his eyes riveted on a man who had 
just entered the cafe. He could see only the stranger’s 
well-groomed back, but when, a moment later, the man 
turned to seat himself, Neeland was not surprised to 
find himself looking at Doc Curfoot. 

“Sengoun,” he said under his breath, “that t^pe who 
just came in is an American gambler named Doc Cur- 
foot ; and he is here with other gamblers for the purpose 
of obtaining political information for some government 
other than my own.” 

Sengoun regarded the new arrival with amiable curi- 
osity : 

“That worm ? Oh, well, every city in Europe swarms 
with such maggots, you know. It would be quite funny 
if he tries any blandishments on us, wouldn’t it.^” 

“He may. He’s a capper. He’s looking at us now. 
I believe he remembers having seen me in the train.” 

“As for an hour or two at chemin-de-fer, baccarat, 
or roulette,” remarked Sengoun, “I am not averse to 
a ” 

“Watch him! The waiter who is taking his order 

851 


THE DARK STAB 


may know who you are — may be telling that gam- 
bler. ... I believe he did! Now, let us see what hap- 
pens. . . .” 

Sengoun, delighted at the prospect of an eventuality, 
blandly emptied his goblet and smiled generally upon 
everybody. 

“I hope he will make our acquaintance and ask us to 
play,” he said. “I’m very lucky at chemin-de-fer. And 
if I lose I shall conclude that there is trickery. Which 
would make it very lively for everybody,” he added 
with a boyish smile. But his dark eyes began to glit- 
ter and he showed his beautiful, even teeth when he 
laughed. 

“Ha!” he said. “A little what you call a mix-up 
might not come amiss! That gives one an appetite; 
that permits one to perspire ; that does good to every- 
body and makes one sleep soundly! Shall we, as you 
say in America, start something.^” 

Neeland, thinking of Ali-Baba and Golden Beard and 
of their undoubted instigation by telegraph of the 
morning’s robbery, wondered whether the rendezvous 
of the robbers might not possibly be here in the Cafe 
des Bulgars. 

The gang of Americans in the train had named Kest- 
ner, Breslau, and Weishelm — the one man of the gang 
whom he had never seen — as prospective partners in 
this enterprise. 

Here, somewhere in this building, were their gambling 
headquarters. Was there any possible chance that the 
stolen box and its contents might have been brought 
here for temporary safety 

Might it not now be hidden somewhere in this very 
building by men too cunning to risk leaving the city 
when every train and every road would be watched 
S52 


THE CAFE DES BULGARS 


within an hour of the time that the robbery was com- 
mitted? 

Leaning back carelessly on the lounge and keeping 
his eyes on the people in the cafe, Neeland imparted 
these ideas to Sengoun in a low voice — told him every- 
thing he knew in regard to the affair, and asked his 
opinion. 

‘‘My opinion,” said Sengoun, who was enchanted at 
any prospect of trouble, “is that this house is ‘suspect’ 
and is worth searching. Of course the Prefect could 
be notified, arrangements made, and a search by the 
secret police managed. But, Neeland, my friend, think 
of what pleasure we should be deprived !” 

“How do you mean?” 

“Why not search the place ourselves?” 

“How.?” 

“Well, of course, we could be picturesque, go to my 
Embassy, and fill our pockets with automatic pistols, 
and come back here and — well, make them stand around 
and see how high they could reach with both hands.” 

Neeland laughed. 

“That would be a funny jest, wouldn’t it?” said 
Sengoun. 

“Very funny. But ” He nudged Sengoun and 

directed his attention toward the terrace outside, where 
waiters were already removing the little iron tables 
and the chairs, and the few lingering guests were com- 
ing inside the cafe. 

“I see,” muttered Sengoun; “it is already Sunday 
morning, and they’re closing. It’s too late to go to the 
Embassy. They’d not let us in here when we re- 
turned.” 

Neeland summoned a waiter with a nod: 

“When do you close up inside here?” 

353 


THE DARK STAR 


“Tomorrow being Sunday, the terrace closes now, 
monsieur; but the cafe remains open all night,” ex- 
plained the waiter with a noticeable German accent. 

“Thank you.” And, to Sengoun: “I’d certainly 
like to go upstairs. I’d like to see what it looks like up 
there — take a glance around.” 

“Very well, let us go up ” 

“We ought to have some excuse ” 

“We’ll think of several on the way,” rising with alac- 
rity, but Neeland pulled him back. 

“Wait a moment! It would only mean a fight ” 

“All fights,” explained Sengoun seriously, “are agree- 
able — some more so. So if you are ready, dear com- 
rade ” 

“But a row will do us no good ” 

“Pardon, dear friend, I have been in serious need of 

one for an hour or two ” 

“I don’t mean that sort of ‘good,’ ” explained Nee- 
land, laughing. “I mean that I wish to look about up 
there — explore ” 

“Quite right, old fellow — always right I But — here’s 
an idea! I could stand at the head of the stairs and 
throw them down as they mounted, while you had lei- 
sure to look around for your stolen box^ ” 

“My dear Prince Erlik, we’ve nothing to shoot with, 
and it’s likely they have. There’s only one way to get 
upstairs with any chance of learning anything useful. 
And that is to start a row between ourselves.” And, 
raising his voice as though irritated, he called for the 
reckoning, adding in a tone perfectly audible to any- 
body in the vicinity that he knew where roulette was 
played, and that he was going whether or not his friend 
accompanied him. 

Sengoun, delighted, recognised his cue and protested 

354 


THE CAFE DES BULGARS 


in loud, nasal tones that the house to which his com- 
rade referred was suspected of unfair play ; and a noisy 
dispute began, listened to attentively by the pretty but 
brightly painted cashier, the waiters, the gerant, and 
every guest in the neighbourhood. 

“As for me,” cried Sengoun, feigning to lose his 
temper, “I have no intention of being tricked. I was 
not born yesterday — not 1 1 If there is to be found an 
honest wheel in Paris that would suit me. Otherwise, 
I go home to bed !” 

“It is an honest wheel, I tell you ” 

“It is not! I know that place!” 

“Be reasonable ” 

“Reasonable!” repeated Sengoun appealingly to the 
people around them. “Permit me to ask these un- 
usually intelligent gentlemen whether it is reasonable 
to play roulette in a place where the wheel is notori- 
ously controlled and the management a dishonest one! 
Could a gentleman be expected to frequent or even to 
countenance places of evil repute Messieurs, I await 
your verdict!” And he folded his arms dramatically. 

Somebody said, from a neighbouring table: 

^^Vous avez parfaiiement raison, monsieur T' 

“I thank you,” cried Sengoun, with an admirably 
dramatic bow. “Therefore, I shall now go home to 
bed !” 

Neeland, maintaining his gravity with difficulty, fol- 
lowed Sengoun toward the door, still pretending to 
plead with him; and the gerant, a tall, blond, rosy and 
unmistakable German, stepped forward to unlock the 
door. 

As he laid his hand on the bolt he said in a 
whisper ; 

“If the gentlemen desire the privilege of an exclusive 
355 


THE BARK STAR 


club where everything is unquestionably con- 
ducted ” 

‘‘Where?” demanded Neeland, abruptly. 

“On the third floor, Tnonsieur.*^ 

“Here?” 

“Certainly, sir. If the gentlemen will honour me 
with their names, and will be seated for one little mo- 
ment, I shall see what can be accomplished.” 

“Very well,” said Sengoun, with a short, incredulous 
laugh. “I’m Prince Erlik, of the Mongol Embassy, 
and my comrade is Mr. Neeland, Consul General of the 
United States of America in the Grand Duchy of Gerol- 
stein !” 

The gerant smiled. After he had gone away toward 
the further room in the cafe, Neeland remarked to Sen- 
goun that doubtless their real names were perfectly well 
known, and Sengoun disdainfully shrugged his indif- 
ference : 

“What can one expect in this dirty rat-nest of Eu- 
rope? Abdul the Damned employed one hundred thou- 
sand spies in Constantinople alone ! And William the 
Sudden admired him. Why, Neeland, mon ami, I never 
take a step in the streets without being absolutely cer- 
tain that I am watched and followed. What do I care ! 
Except that towns make me sick. But the only cure 
is a Khirgiz horse and a thousand lances. God send 
them. I’m sick of cities.” 

A few moments later the gerant returned and, in a 
low voice, requested them to accompany him. 

They passed leisurely through the cafe, between 
tables where lowered eyes seemed to deny any curiosity ; 
but guests and waiters looked after them after they had 
passed, and here and there people whispered together 
— particularly two men who had followed them 
356 


THE CAFE DES BULGARS 


from the sun-dial fountain in the rue Soleil d’Or to the 
Jardin Russe, across the Place de la Concordcj and into 
the Cafe des Bulgars in the rue Vilna. 

On the stairs Neeland heard Sengoun still muttering 
to himself: 

“Certainly I am sick of cities and narrow strips of 
sky. What I need is a thousand lances at a gallop, 
and a little Kirghiz horse between my knees.” 


CHAPTER XXXII 


THE CERCLE EXTRANATIONALE 

The suite of rooms into which they were ushered ap- 
peared to be furnished in irreproachable taste. Except 
for the salon at the further end of the suite, where play 
was in progress, the charming apartment might have 
been a private one; and the homelike simplicity of the 
room, where books, flowers, and even a big, grey cat 
confirmed the first agreeable impression, accented the 
lurking smile on Sengoun’s lips. 

Doc Curfoot, in evening dress, came forward to re- 
ceive them, in company with another man, young, nice- 
looking, very straight, and with the high, square shoul- 
ders of a Prussian. 

*^Bong soire, mussoors,^^ said Curfoot genially. “J’ai 
Vhonnoor de vons faire connaitre mong am% Mnssoor 
Weishelm.'* 

They exchanged very serious bows with ‘‘Mussoor” 
Weishehn, and Curfoot retired. 

In excellent French Weishelm inquired whether they 
desired supper; and learning that they did not, bowed 
smilingly and bade them welcome: 

‘‘You are at home, gentlemen; the house is yours. 
If it pleases you to sup, we offer you our hospitality; 
if you care to play, the salon is at your disposal, or, if 
you prefer, a private room. Yonder is the buffet ; there 
are electric bells at your elbow. You are at home,” he 
repeated, clicked his heels together, bowed, and took 
his leave. 


358 


THE CERCLE EXTRANATION ALE 


Sengoun dropped into a comfortable chair and sent 
a waiter for caviar, toast, and German champagne. 

Neeland lighted a cigarette, seated himself, and 
looked about him curiously. 

Over in a corner on a sofa a rather pretty woman, 
a cigarette between her jewelled fingers, was reading an 
evening newspaper. Two others in the adjoining room, 
young and attractive, their feet on the fireplace fender, 
conversed together over a sandwich, a glass of the 
widely advertised Dubonnet, and another of the equally 
advertised Bon Lait Maggi — as serenely and as com- 
fortably as though they were by their own firesides. 

“Perhaps they are,” remarked Sengoun, plastering 
an oblong of hot toast with caviar. “Birds of this kind 
nest easily anywhere.” 

Neeland continued to gaze toward the salon where 
play was in progress. There did not seem to be many 
people there. At a small table he recognised Brandes 
and Stull playing what appeared to be bridge whist 
with two men whom he had never before seen. There 
were no women playing. 

As he watched the round, expressionless face of 
Brandes, who was puffing a long cigar screwed tightly 
into the corner of his thin-lipped mouth, it occurred 
to him somewhat tardily what Rue Carew had said con- 
cerning personal danger to himself if any of these peo- 
ple believed him capable of reconstructing from memory 
any of the stolen plans. 

He had not thought about that specific contingency ; 
instinct alone had troubled him a little when he first 
entered the Cafe des Bulgars. 

However, his unquiet eyes could discover nothing of 
either Kestner or Breslau; and, somehow, he did not 
even think of encountering Use Dumont in such a plact. 
359 


THE DARK STAR 


As for Brandes and Stull, they did not recognise him at 
all. 

So, entirely reassured once more by the absence of 
Ali-Baba and Golden Beard, and of Scheherazade whom 
he had no fear of meeting, Neeland ate his caviar with 
a relish and examined his surroundings. 

Of course it was perfectly possible that the stolen 
papers had been brought here. There were three other 
floors in the building, too, and he wondered what they 
were used for. 

Sengoun’s appetite for conflict waned as he ate and 
drank; and a violent desire to gamble replaced it. 

“You poke about a bit,” he said to Neeland. “Talk 
to that girl over there and see what you can learn. As 
for me, I mean to start a little flirtation with Made- 
moiselle Fortuna. Does that suit you?” 

If Sengoun wished to play it was none of Neeland’s 
business. 

“Do you think it an honest game?” he asked, doubt- 
fully. 

“With negligible stakes all first-class gamblers are 
honest.” 

“If I were you, Sengoun, I wouldn’t drink anything 
more.” 

“Excellent advice, old fellow!” emptying his goblet 
with satisfaction. And, rising to his firm and grace- 
ful height, he strolled away toward the salon where 
play progressed amid the most decorous and edifying 
of atmospheres. 

Neeland watched him disappear, then he glanced curi- 
ously at the girl on the sofa who was still preoccupied 
with her newspaper. 

So he rose, sauntered about the room examining the 
few pictures and bronzes, modern but excellent. The 
360 


THE CEECLE EXTRANATION ALE 


oarpet under foot was thick and soft, but, as he strolled 
past the girl who seemed to be so intently reading, she 
looked up over her paper and returned his civil recog- 
nition of her presence with a slight smile. 

As he appeared inclined to linger, she said with pleas- 
ant self-possession: 

“These newspaper rumours, monsieur, are becoming 
too persistent to amuse us much longer. War talk is 
becoming vieux jeu.*^ 

“Why read them?” inquired Neeland with a smile. 

“Why?” She made a slight gesture. “One reads 
what is printed, I suppose.” 

“Written and printed by people who know no more 
about the matter in question than you and I, made- 
moiselle,” he remarked, still smiling. 

“That is perfectly true. Why is it worth while for 
anyone to search for truth in these days when everyone 
is paid to conceal it?” 

“Oh,” he said, “not everyone.” 

“No; some lie naturally and without pay,” she ad- 
mitted indifferently. 

“But there are still others. For example, made- 
moiselle, yourself.” 

“I.?” She laughed, not troubling to refute the sug- 
gestion of her possible truthfulness. 

He said: 

“This — club — is furnished in excellent taste.” 

“Yes; it is quite new.” 

“Has it a name?” 

“I believe it is called the Cercle Extranationale. 
Would monsieur also like to know the name of the club 
cat ?” 

They both laughed easily, but he could make nothing 
of her. 


361 


THE BARK STAR 


“Thank you,” he said ; “and I fear I have interrupted 
your reading 

“I have read enough lies ; I am quite ready to tell you 
a few. Shall I?” 

“You are most amiable. I have been wondering what 
the other floors in this building are used for.” 

“Private apartments,” she replied smiling, looking 
him straight in the eyes. “Now you don’t know 
whether I’ve told you the truth or not ; do you 

“Of course I know.” 

“Which, then.?” 

“The truth.” 

She laughed and indicated a chair; and he seated 
himself. 

“Who is the dark, nice-looking gentleman accom- 
panying you.?” she enquired. 

“How could you see him at all through your news- 
paper.?” 

“I poked a hole, of course.” 

“To look at him or at me.?” 

“Your mirror ought to reassure you. However, as 
an afterthought, who is he?” 

“Prince Erlik, of Mongolia,” replied Neeland sol- 
emnly. 

“I supposed so. We of the infernal aristocracy be- 
long together. I am the Contessa Diabletta d’Enfer.” 

He inclined gravely: 

“I’m afraid I don’t belong here,” he said. “I’m only 
a Yankee.” 

“Hell is full of them,” she said, smiling. “All Yan- 
kees belong where Prince Erlik and I are at home. 
. . . Do you play?” 

“No. Do you?” 

“It depends on chance.” 


THE CERCLE EXTRANATIONALE 


‘‘It would give me much pleasure ” 

“Thank you, not tonight.” And in the same, level, 
pleasant voice: “Don’t look immediately, but from 
where you sit you can see in the mirror opposite two 
women seated in the next room.” 

After a moment he nodded. 

“Are they watching us?” 

“Yes.” 

“Mr. Neeland?” 

He reddened with surprise. 

“Get Captain Sengoun and leave,” she said, still smil- 
ing. “Do it carelessly, convincingly. Neither of you 
needs courage; both of you lack common sense. Get 
up, take leave of me nicely but regretfully, as though I 
had denied you a rendezvous. You will be killed if 
you remain here.” 

For a moment Neeland hesitated, but curiosity won: 

“Who is likely to try anything of that sort.^” he 
asked. And a tingling sensation, not wholly unpleas- 
ant, passed over him. 

“Almost anyone here, if you are recognised,” she 
said, as gaily as though she were imparting delightful 
information. 

“But you recognise us. And I’m certainly not dead 
yet.” 

“Which ought to tell you more about me than I 
am likely to tell anybody. Now, when I smile at you 
and shake my head, make your adieux to me, find Cap- 
tain Sengoun, and take your departure. Do you under- 
stand?” 

“Are you really serious?” 

“It is you who should be serious. Now, I give you 
your signal. Monsieur Neeland ” 

But the smile stiffened on her pretty face, and at 

363 


THE DARK STAR 


the same moment he was aware that somebody had en- 
tered the room and was standing directly behind him. 

He turned on his chair and looked up into the face 
of Use Dumont. 

There was a second’s hesitation, then he was on his 
feet, greeting her cordially, apparently entirely at 
ease and with nothing on his mind except the agreeable 
surprise of the encounter. 

‘T had your note,” he said. “It was charming of 
you to write, but very neglectful of you not to include 
your address. Tell me, how have you been since I last 
saw you.^” 

Use Dumont’s red lips seemed to be dry, for she 
moistened them without speaking. In her eyes he saw 
peril — knowledge of something terrible — some instant 
menace. 

Then her eyes, charged with lightning, slowly turned 
from him to the girl on the sofa who had not moved. 
But in her eyes, too, a little flame began to flicker and 
play, and the fixed smile relaxed into an expression of 
cool self-possession. 

Neeland’s pleasant, careless voice broke the occult 
tension : 

“This is a pretty club,” he said ; “everything here is 
in such excellent taste. You might have told me about 
it,” he added to Dse ivith smiling reproach ; “but you 
never even mentioned it, and I discovered it quite by 
accident.” 

Use Dumont seemed to find her voice with an effort : 

“May I have a word with you, Mr. Neeland?” she 
asked. 

“Always,” he assured her promptly. “I am always 
more than happy to listen to you 

“Please follow me!” 


864 


THE CERCLE EXTRANATION ALE 


He turned to the girl on the sofa and made his adieux 
with conventional ceremony and a reckless smile which 
said : 

“You were quite right, mademoiselle; Pm in trouble 
already.” 

Then he followed Use Dumont into the adjoining 
room, which was lined with filled bookcases and where 
the lounges and deep chairs were covered with 
leather. 

Halting by the library table, Dse Dumont turned to 
him — turned on him a look such as he never before 
had encountered in any living woman’s eyes — a dead 
gaze, dreadful, glazed, as impersonal as the fixed regard 
of a corpse. 

She said: 

“I came. . . . They sent for me. ... I did not 
believe they had the right man. ... I could not be- 
lieve it, Neeland.” 

A trifle shaken, he said in tones which sounded steady 
enough : 

“What frightens you so, Scheherazade.?”’ 

“Why did you come.?* Are you absolutely mad.?*” 

“Mad.?* No, I don’t think so,” he replied with a 
forced smile. “What threatens me here, Schehera- 
zade.?*” — regarding her pallid face attentively. 

“Death. ... You must have known it when you 
came.” 

“Death.?* No, I didn’t know it.” 

“Did you suppose that if they could get hold of 
you they’d let you go.?* — ^A man who might carry in his 
memory the plans for which they tried to kill you.?* I 
wrote to you — I wrote to you to go back to America! 
And — this is what you have done instead!” 

“Well,” he said in a pleasant but rather serious 

865 


THE DARK STAR 


Voice, “if you really believe there is danger for me if I 
remain here, perhaps I’d better go.” 

“You can*t go!” 

“You think I’ll be stopped 

“Yes. Who is your crazy companion? I heard that 
he is Alak Sengoun — the headlong fool — they call 
Prince Erlik. Is it true?” 

“Where did you hear all these things ?” he demanded. 
“Where were you when you heard them?” 

“At the Turkish Embassy. Word came that they 
had caught you. I did not believe it; others present 
doubted it. . . . But as the rumour concerned yoUy I 
took no chances ; I came instantly. I — I had rather 
be dead than see you here ” Her voice became un- 

steady, but she controlled it at once: 

“Neeland! Neeland! Why did you come? Why have 
you undone all I tried to do for you- ?” 

He looked intently at Use Dumont, then his gaze 
swept the handsome suite of rooms. No one seemed to 
notice him; in perspective, men moved leisurely about 
the further saloriy where play was going on ; and 
there seemed to be no one else in sight. And, as he 
stood there, free, in full pride and vigour of youth 
and strength, he became incredulous that anything 
could threaten him which he could not take care 
of. 

A smile grew in his eyes, confident, humorous, a little 
hint of tenderness in it: 

“Scheherazade,” he said, “you are a dear. You 
pulled me out of a dreadful mess on the Volhynia, I 
offer you gratitude, respect, and the very warm regard 
for you which I really cherish in my heart.” 

He took her hands, kissed them, looked up half laugh- 
ing, half in earnest. 


366 


THE CERCLE EXTRANATION ALE 


“If you’re worried,” he said, “I’ll find Captain Sen- 
goun and we’ll depart ” 

She retained his hands in a convulsive clasp : 

‘‘Oh, Neeland ! Neeland ! There are men below who 
will never let you pass ! And Breslau and Kestner are 
coming here later. ' And that devil, Damat Mahmud 
Bey !” 

“Golden Beard and Ali Baba and the whole Arabian 
Nights !” exclaimed Neeland. “Who is Damat Mahmud 
Bey, Scheherazade dear?” 

“The shadow of Abdul Hamid.” 

“Yes, dear child, but Abdul the Damned is shut up 
tight in a fortress !” 

“His shadow dogs the spurred heels of Enver Pasha,” 
she said, striving to maintain her composure. “Oh, 
Neeland ! — ^A hundred thousand Armenians are yet to 
die in that accursed shadow ! And do you think Mah- 
mud Damat will hesitate in regard to youP^ 

“Nonsense! Does a murderous Moslem go about 
Paris killing people he doesn’t happen to fancy? Those 
things aren’t done ” 

“Have you and Sengoun any weapons at all?” 
she interrupted desperately, “Anything I — A sword 
cane ?” 

“No. What the devil does all this business mean?” 
he broke out impatiently. “What’s all this menace of 
lawlessness — this impudent threat of interference ” 

“It is warP^ 

“War?” he repeated, not quite understanding her. 

She caught him by the arm: 

“War!” she whispered; “War! Do you understand? 
They don’t care what they do now ! They mean to kill 
you here in this place. They’ll be out of France before 
anybody finds you.” 


367 


THE DARK STAR 


‘‘Has war actually been declared?” he asked, 
astounded. 

“Tomorrow ! It is known in certain circles !” She 
dropped his arm and clasped her hands and stood there 
twisting them, white, desperate, looking about her like 
a hunted thing. 

“Why did you do this?” she repeated in an agonised 
voice. ^‘What can I do? I’m no traitor ! . . . But I’d 
give you a pistol if I had one ” She checked her- 

self as the girl who had been reading an evening news- 
paper on a sofa, and to whom Neeland had been talking 
when Use Dumont entered, came sauntering into the 
room. 

The eyes of both women met; both turned a trifle 
paler. Then Use Dumont walked slowly up to the other : 

“I overheard your warning,” she said with a deadly 
stare. 

“Really.?” 

Use stretched out her bare arm, palm upward, and 
closed the fingers tightly: 

“I hold your life in my hand. I have only to speak. 
Do you understand?” 

“No.” 

“You are lying. You do understand. You take 
double wages; but it is not France you betray! Nor 
Russia !” 

“Are you insane?” 

“Almost. Where do you carry themV* 

“What.?” 

“Answer quickly. Where? I teU you. I’ll expose you 
in another moment if you don’t answer me! Speak 
quickly !” 

The other woman had turned a ghastly white ; for a 
second or two she remained dumb, then, dry-lipped: 
368 


THE CERCLE EXTRANATION ALE 


‘‘Above — the knee,” she stammered; but there was 
scarcely a sound from the blanched lips that formed 
the words. 

“Pistols.?” 

“Yes.” 

“Loaded.? Both of them.?” 

“Yes.” 

“Clips.?” 

“No.” 

“Unstrap them !” 

The woman turned, bent almost double, twisting 
her supple body entirely around; but Use Dumont 
was at her side like a flash and caught her wrist as 
she withdrew her hand from the hem of her fluffy 
skirt. 

“Now — tahe your life!” said Use Dumont between 
her teeth. “There’s the door! Go out!” — following 
her with blazing eyes — “Stop ! Stand where you are 
until I come!” 

Then she came quickly to where Neeland stood, 
astonished; and thrust two automatic pistols into his 
hands. 

“Get Sengoun,” she whispered. “Don’t go dowrir 
stairs, for God’s sake. Get to the roof, if you can. 
Try — oh, try, try, Neeland, my friend!” Her voice 
trembled; she looked into his eyes — gave him, in that 
swift regard, all that a woman withholds until the right 
man asks. 

Her lips quivered; she turned sharply on her heel, 
went to the outer hallway, where the other woman stood 
motionless. 

“What am I to do with youf^^ demanded Use Du- 
mont. “Do you think you are going out of here to 
summon the police.? Mount those stairs!” 

369 


THE DARK STAB 


The woman dropped her hand on the banisters, 
heavily, set foot on the first stair, then slowly mounted 
as though her little feet in their dainty evening slippers 
were weighted with ball and chain. 

Use Dumont followed her, opened a door in the pas- 
sage, motioned her to enter. It was a bedroom that 
the electric light revealed. The woman entered and 
stood by the bed as though stupefied. 

“I’ll keep my word to you,” said Use Dumont. 
“When it becomes too late for you to do us any mis- 
chief, I’ll return and let you go.” 

And she stepped back across the threshold and 
locked the door on the outside. 

As she did so, Neeland and Sengoun came swiftly 
up the stairs, and she beckoned them to follow, gath- 
ered the skirts of her evening gown into one hand, 
and ran up the stairs ahead of them to the fifth 
floor. 

In the dim light Neeland saw that the top floor was 
merely a vast attic full of debris from the cafe on the 
ground floor — iron tables which required mending or 
repainting, iron chairs, great jars of artificial stone 
with dead baytrees standing in them, parts of rusty 
stoves and kitchen ranges, broken cutlery in boxes, 
cracked table china and heavier kitchen crockery in 
tubs which once had held flowers. 

The only windows gave on a court. Through their 
dirty panes already the grey light of that early Sunday 
morning glimmered, revealing the contents of the 
shadowy place, and the position of an iron ladder 
hooked to two rings under the scuttle overhead. 

Use Dumont laid her finger on her lips, conjuring 
silence, then, clutching her silken skirts, she started up 
the iron ladder, reached the top, and, exerting all her 
370 


THE CERCLE EXTRANATION ALE 


strength^ lifted the hinged scuttle leading to the leads 
outside. 

Instantly somebody challenged her in a guttural 
voice. She stood there a few moments in whispered con- 
versation, then, from outside, somebody lowered the 
scuttle cover; the girl locked it, descended the iron 
ladder backwards, and came swiftly across to where 
Neeland and Sengoun were standing, pistols lifted. 

‘‘They’re guarding the roof,” she whispered, “ — two 
men. It is hopeless, that way.” 

“The proper way,” said Sengoun calmly, “is for us 
to shoot our way out of this !” 

The girl turned on him in a passion: 

“Do you suppose I care what happens to youV^ she 
said. “If there were no one else to consider you might 
do as you pleased, for all it concerns me!” 

Sengoun reddened: 

“Be silent, you treacherous little cat!” he retorted. 
“Do you imagine your riffraff are going to hold me 
here when I’m ready to depart ! Mel A free Cossack ! 
Bah !” 

“Don’t talk that way, Sengoun,” said Neeland 
sharply. “We owe these pistols to her.” 

“Oh,” muttered Sengoun, shooting a menacing glance 
at her. “I didn’t understand that.” Then his scowl 
softened and a sudden laugh cleared his face. 

“I’m sorry, mademoiselle,” he said. “You’re quite 
welcome to your low opinion of me. But if anyone 
should ask me, I’d say that I don’t understand what is 
happening to us. And after a while I’ll become angry 
and go downstairs for information.” 

“They know nothing about you in the sdUe de jew,^^ 
she said, “but on the floor below they’re waiting to 
kill you.” 


371 


THE DARK STAR 


Neeland, astonished, asked her whether the American 
gamblers in the salon where Sengoun had been playing 
were ignorant of what was going on in the house. 

“What Americans?” she demanded, incredulously. 
^‘Do you mean Weishelm?” 

“Didn’t you know there were Americans employed 
in the salle de jeu?^^ asked Neeland, surprised. 

“No. I have not been in this house for a year until 
I came tonight. This place is maintained by the Turk- 
ish Government — ” She flashed a glance at Sengoun 
— ^^youJre welcome to the information now,” she added 
contemptuously. And then, to Neeland: “There was, I 
believe, some talk in New York about adding one or 
two Americans to the personnel, but I opposed it.” 

“They’re here,” said Neeland drily. 

“Do you know who they are?” 

“Yes. There’s a man called Doc Curfoot ” 

**Who!r 

And suddenly, for the first time, Neeland remembered 
that she had been the wife of one of the men below. 

“Brandes and Stull are the others,” he said mechan- 
ically. 

The girl stared at him as though she did not compre- 
hend, and she passed one hand slowly across her fore- 
head and eyes. 

“Eddie Brandes? Here? And Stull? Curfoot? 
Here in this house!** 

“In the salon below.” 

“They canH be !” she protested in an odd, colourless 
voice. “They were bought soul and body by the British 
Secret Service!” 

All three stood staring at one another; the girl 
flushed, clenched her hand, then let it fall by her side as 
though utterly overcome. 

372 


THE CERCLE EXTRANATION ALE 


“All this espionage !” cried Sengoun, furiously. 

— It makes me sick, I tell you! Where everybody 
betrays everybody is no place for a free Cossack ! ” 

The terrible expression on the girl’s face checked 
him; she said, slowly: 

“It is we others who have been betrayed, it seems. 
It is we who are trapped here. They’ve got us all — 
every one of us. Oh, my God! — every one of us — at 
last !” 

She lifted her haggard face and stared at the increas- 
ing light which was turning the window panes a sickly 
yellow. 

“With sunrise comes war,” she said in a stunned 
voice, as though to convince herself. “We are caught 
here in this house. And Kestner and Weishelm and 

Breslau and I ” she trembled, framing her burning 

face in slim hands that were like ice. “Do you under- 
stand that Brandes and Curfoot, bought by England, 
have contracted to deliver us to a French court mar- 
tial?” 

The men looked at her in silence. 

“Kestner and Breslau knew they had been bought. 
One of our own people witnessed that treachery. But 
we never dreamed that these traitors would venture into 
this house tonight. We should have come here ourselves 
instead of going to the Turkish Embassy. That was 
Mahmud Damat’s meddling! His messenger insisted. 
God ! What a mistake ! What a deathly mistake for 
all of us!” 

She leaned for a moment against one of the iron 
pillars which supported the attic roof, and covered her 
face with her hands. 

After a moment, Neeland said: 

“I don’t understand why you can’t leave this house 

373 


THE DARK STAR 


if you are in danger. You say that there are men 
downstairs who are waiting to kill us — waiting only 
for Kestner and' Breslau and Mahmud Damat to ar- 
rive.” 

She said faintly: 

‘‘I did not before understand Mahmud’s delay. Now, 
I understand. He has been warned. Breslau and Kest- 
ner will not come. Otherwise, you now would be barri- 
caded behind that breastwork of rubbish, fighting for 
your lives.” 

“But you say there are men on the stairs below who 
are ready to kill us if we try to leave the house.” 

“They, too, are trapped without knowing it. War 
will come with sunrise. This house has been under sur- 
veillance since yesterday afternoon. They have not 
closed in on us yet, because they are leaving the trap 
open in hopes of catching us all. They are waiting for 
Breslau and Kestner and Mahmud Damat. . . . But 
they’ll never come, now. . . . They are out of the city 
by this time. ... I know them. They are running for 
their lives at this hour. . . . And we — we lesser ones — • 
caught here — trapped — reserved for a French court 
martial and a firing squad in a barrack square!” 

She shuddered and pressed her hands over her tem- 
ples. 

Neeland said: 

“I am going to stand by you. Captain Sengoun will 
do the same.” 

She shook her head : 

“No use,” she said with a shiver. “I am too well 
known. They have my dossier almost complete. My 
•proces will be a brief one.” 

“Can’t you get away by the roof.'^ There are two 
of your men up there.” 


374 


THE CERCLE EXTRANATION ALE 


“They themselves are caught, and do not even know 
i:. They too will face a squad of execution before the 
sun rises tomorrow. And they never dream of it up 
there ” 

She made a hopeless gesture: 

“What is the use! When I came here from the 
Turkish Embassy, hearing that you were here but be- 
lieving the information false, I discovered you convers- 
ing with a Russian spy — overheard her warn you to 
leave this house. 

“And there, all the while, unknown to me, in the 
salle de jeu were Cur foot and that unspeakable scoun- 
drel Brandes ! Why, the place was swarming with ene- 
mies — and I never dreamed it ! . . . Yet — I might have 
feared some such thing — I might have feared that the 
man, Brandes, who had betrayed me once, would do it 
again if he ever had the chance. . . . And he’s done 
it.” 

There was a long silence. Use stood staring at the 
melancholy greyish light on the window panes. 

She said as though to herself: 

“I shall never see another daybreak.” . . . After 
a moment she turned and began to pace the attic, a 
strange, terrible figure of haggard youth in the shadowy 
light. “How horribly still it is at daybreak!” she 
breathed, halting before Neeland. “How deathly 
quiet ” 

The dry crack of a pistol cut her short. Then, in- 
stantly, in the dim depths of the house, shot followed 
shot in bewildering succession, faster, faster, filling the 
place with a distracting tumult. 

Neeland jerked up his pistol as a nearer volley rat- 
tled out on the landing directly underneath. 

Sengoun, exasperated, shouted: 

g75 


THE DARK STAR 


‘‘Well, what the devil is all this !” and ran toward 
the head of the stairs, his pistol lifted for action. 

Then, in the garret doorway, Weishelm appeared, his 
handsome face streaming blood. He staggered, turned 
mechanically toward the stairs again with wavering 
revolver; but a shot drove him blindly backward and 
another hurled him full length across the floor, where 
he lay with both arms spread out, and the last tremors 
running from his feet to his twitching face. 


V 


CHAPTER XXXIII 


A RAT HUNT 

The interior of the entire house was now in an up* 
roar; shots came fast from every landing; the semi- 
dusk of stair-well and corridor was lighted by incessant 
pistol flashes and the whole building echoed the deafen- 
ing racket. 

^‘What do you make of it.^” shouted Sengoun fu- 
riously, standing like a baited and perplexed bull. 
“Who’s fighting who in this fool of a place.? By Erlik ! 
I’d like to know whom I’m to fire at !” 

Use Dumont, creeping along the wall, looked fear- 
fully down at Weishelm who no longer moved where he 
lay on the dusty floor, with eyes and mouth open and 
his distorted face already half covered by a wet and 
crawling scarlet mask. 

“Brandes and Stull are betraying us,” she whispered. 
“They are killing my comrades — on the stairs down 
there ” 

“If that is true,” called out Neeland in a low, cau- 
tious voice, “you’d better wait a moment, Sengoun!” 

But Sengoun’s rage for combat had already filled 
him to overflowing, and the last rag of patience left 
him. 

“I don’t care who is fighting!” he bellowed. “It’s all 
one to me! Now is the time to shoot our way out of 
this. Come on, Neeland! Hurrah for the Terek Cos- 
sacks! Another town taken! Hurrah!” 

Neeland caught Use by the wrist: 

377 


THE DARK STAR 


‘‘You’d better get free of this house while you can!” 
he said, dragging her with him after Sengoun, who had 
already reached the head of the stairs and was starting 
down, peering about for a target. 

Suddenly, on the landing below. Golden Beard and 
Ali Baba appeared, caught sight of Sengoun and Nee- 
land above, and opened fire on them instantly, driving 
them back from the head of the staircase flat against 
the corridor wall. But Golden Beard, seeming to real- 
ise now that the garret landing was held and the waj 
to the roof cut off, began to retreat from the foot of 
the garret stairs with Ali Baba following, their rest- 
less, Upward-pointed pistols searching for the slight- 
est movement in the semi-obscurity of the hallway 
above. 

Sengoun, fuming and fretting, had begun to creep 
toward the head of the stairs again, when there came 
a rattling hail of shots from below, a rush, the trample 
of feet, the crash of furniture and startling slam of 
a door. 

Downstairs straight toward the uproar ran Sengoun 
with Neeland beside him. The halls were swimming in 
acrid fumes; the floors trembled and shook under the 
shock as a struggling, fighting knot of men went tum- 
bling down the stairway below, reached the landing 
and burst into the rooms of the Cercle Extranationale. 

Leaning over the banisters, Neeland saw Golden 
Beard turn on Doc Curfoot, raging, magnificent as a 
Viking, his blue eyes ablaze. He hurled his empty pistol 
at the American; seized chairs, bronzes, andirons, the 
clock from the mantel, and sent a storm of heavy mis- 
siles through the doorway among the knot of men who 
were pressing him and who had already seized Ali Baba. 

Then, from the banisters above, Neeland and Sen- 

378 


A RAT HUNT 


goun saw Brandes, moving stealthily, swiftly, edge his 
way to a further door. 

Steadying the elbow of his pistol hand in the hollow 
cup of his left palm, his weapon level, swerving as his 
quarry moved, he presently fired at Golden Beard and 
got him through the back. And then he shot him again 
deliberately, through the body, as the giant turned, 
made a menacing gesture toward him; took an uncer- 
tain step in his direction; another step, wavering, 
blindly grotesque; then stood swaying there under the 
glare of the partly shattered chandelier from which 
hung long shreds of crystal prisms. 

And Brandes, aiming once more with methodical and 
merciless precision, and taking what time he required to 
make a bull’s-eye on this great, reeling, golden-crowned 
bull, fired the third shot at his magnificent head. 

The bronze Barye lion dropped from Golden Beard’s 
nerveless fist; the towering figure, stiffening, fell over 
rather slowly and lay across the velvet carpet as rigid 
as a great tree. 

Brandes went into the room, leaned over the dying 
man and fired into his body until his pistol was empty. 
Then he replaced the exhausted clip leisurely, leering 
down at his victim. 

There was a horrid sound from the stairs, where Cur- 
foot and another man were killing a waiter. Strange, 
sinister faces appeared everywhere from the smoke- 
filled club rooms ; Stull came out into the hallway below 
and shouted up through the stair-well: 

‘‘Say, Eddie! For Christ’s sake come down here! 
There’s a mob outside on the street and they’re tearing 
the iron shutters off the cafe !” 

Curfoot immediately started downstairs; Brandes, 
pistol in hand, came slowly out of the club rooms, still 

n 


THE DARK STAR 


leering, his slitted, greenish eyes almost phosphorescent 
in the semi-obscurity. 

Suddenly he caught sight of Use Dumont standing 
close behind Sengoun and Neeland on the landing above. 

‘‘By God!” he shouted to Curfoot. “Here she is, 
Doc ! Tell your men ! Tell them she’s up here on the 
next floor!” 

Sengoun immediately fired at Brandes, who did not 
return the shot but went plunging downstairs into the 
smoky obscurity below. 

“Come on!” roared Sengoun to Neeland, starting 
forward with levelled weapon. “They’ve all gone crazy 
and it’s time we were getting out of this !” 

“Quick!” whispered Neeland to Use Dumont. “Fol- 
low me downstairs ! It’s the only chance for you now !” 

But the passageway was blocked by a struggling, 
cursing, panting crowd, and they were obliged to re- 
treat into the club rooms. 

In the saUe de jew, Ali Baba, held fast by three men 
dressed as waiters, suddenly tripped up two of them, 
turned, and leaped for the doorway. The two men who 
had been tripped scranlbled to their feet and tore after 
him. When they reached the hallway the Eurasian 
was gone ; but all of a sudden there came the crash of 
a splintered door from the landing above ; and the dim 
corridor rang with the frightful screaming of a woman. 

“It’s — that — that — Russian girl!” stammered Use 
Dumont ; “ — The girl I locked in ! Oh, my God ! — my 
God ! Karl Breslau is killing her !” 

Neeland sprang into the hall and leaped up the 
stairs; but the three men disguised as waiters had 
arrived before him. 

And there, across the threshold of the bedroom, 
backed up flat against the shattered door, Ali Baba 
380 


A RAT HUNT 


was already fighting for his life; and the frightened 
Russian girl crept out from the bedroom behind him 
and ran to Neeland for protection. 

Twice Neeland aimed at Ali Baba, but could not 
bring himself to fire at the bleeding, rabid object which 
snarled and slavered and bit and kicked, regardless of 
the blows raining on him. At last one of his assailants 
broke the half demented creature’s arm with a chair; 
and the bloody, battered thing squeaked like a crip- 
pled rat and darted away amid the storm of blows 
descending, limping and floundering up the attic 
stairs, his broken arm flapping with every gasping 
bound. 

After him staggered his sweating and exhausted as- 
sailants, reeling past Neeland and Use Dumont and 
the terrified Russian girl who crouched behind them. 
But, halfway up the stairs all three halted and stood 
clinging to the banisters as though listening to some- 
thing on the floor above them. 

Neeland heard it, too: from the roof came a ripping, 
splintering sound, as though people on the slates were 
prying up the bolted scuttle. The three men on the 
stairs hesitated a moment longer; then turned to flee, 
too late; a hail of pistol shots swept the attic stairs; 
all three men came pitching and tumbling down to the 
landing. 

Two of them lay still; one rose immediately and 
limped on again down the hallway, calling over the 
banisters to those below: 

‘‘The Germans on the leads ’ave busted into the gar- 
ret! Breslau is up ’ere! Send along those American 
gunmen, or somebody what can shoot !” 

He was a grey-haired Englishman, smooth shaven 
and grim; and, as he stood there at the head of the 
381 


THE DARK STAR 


further stairs, braathing heavily, awaiting aid from 
below, he said to Neeland coolly enough : 

‘‘You’d better go below, sir. We ’ad our orders to 
take this Breslau rat alive, but we can’t do it now, and 
there’s like to be a ’orrid mess ’ere directly.” 

“Can we get through below.?” 

^^You can,” said the man significantly, “but they’ll 
be detaining one o’ them ladies at the door.” 

“Do you mean me.?” said Use Dumont. 

“Yes, ma’am, I do ” 

She sprang toward the attic stairway, but the British 
agent whipped out a pistol and covered her. 

“No,” he said grimly. “You’re wanted below. Go 
down !” 

She came slowly back to where Neeland was standing. 

“You’ll have to take your chance below,” he said 
under his breath. “I’ll stand by you to the end.” 

She smiled and continued on toward the stairs where 
the English agent stood. Neeland and the Russian girl 
followed her. 

The agent said: 

“There’s ’ell to pay below, sir.” 

The depths of the house rang with the infernal din 
of blows falling on iron shutters. A deeper, more sin- 
ister roar rose from the mob outside. There was a 
struggle going on inside the building, too; Neeland 
could hear the trampling and surging of men on every 
floor — voices calling from room to room, shouts of 
anger, the terrible outcry of a man in agony. 

“Wot a rat’s nest, then, there was in this here blessed 
’ouse, sir!” said the British agent, coolly. “If we get 
Breslau and the others on the roof we’ve bagged ’em 
all.” 

The Russian girl was trembling so violently that 

38S 


A RAT HUNT 


Neeland took her by the arm. But Use Dumontj giving 
her a glance of contempt, moved calmly past the British 
agent to the head of the stairway. 

“Come,” she said to Neeland. 

The agent, leaning over the banisters, shouted to a 
man on the next floor : 

“Look sharp below there ! I’m sendin’ Miss Dumont 
down with Mr. Neeland, the American! Take her in 
charge. Bill!” 

“Send her along!” bawled the man, framing his face 
with both hands, “Keep Breslau on the roof a bit and 
we’ll ’ave the beggar in a few moments !” 

Somebody else shouted up from the tumult below : 

“It’s war, ’Arry! ’Ave you ’eard.? It’s war this 
morning! Them ’Uns ’as declared war! And the per- 
lice is a-killin’ of the Apaches all over Paris !” 

Use Dumont looked curiously at the agent, calmly at 
Neeland, then, dropping one hand on the banisters, she 
went lightly down the stairs toward the uproar below, 
followed by Neeland and the Russian girl clinging to 
his arm with both desperate little hands. 

The British agent hung far over the banisters until 
he saw his colleague join them on the floor below; then, 
reassured, and on guard again, he leaned back against 
the corridor wall, his pistol resting on his thigh, and 
fixed his cold grey eyes on the attic stairs once more. 

The secret agent who now joined Neeland and Use 
Dumont on the fourth floor had evidently been con- 
structing a barricade across the hallway as a precau- 
tion in case of a rush from the Germans on the roof. 

Chairs and mattresses, piled shoulder high, ob- 
structed the passageway, blocking the stairs; and the 
secret agent — a very young man with red hair and in 
the garb of a waiter — clambered over it, revolver in 
383 


THE DARK STAR 


one hand, a pair of handcuffs in the other. He lost his 
balance on top of the shaky heap; strove desperately 
to recover it, scrambled like a cat in a tub, stumh^^d, 
rolled over on a mattress. 

And there Neeland pinned him, closing his mouth 
with one hand and his throat with the other, while Use 
Dumont tore weapon and handcuffs from his grasp, 
snapped the latter over his wrists, snatched the case 
from a bedroom pillow lying among the mattresses, and, 
with Neeland’s aid, swathed the struggling man’s head 
in it. 

“Into that clothes-press!” whispered Use, pointing 
along the hallway where a door swung open. 

“Help me lift him!” motioned Neeland. 

Together they got him clear of the shaky barricade 
and, lugging him between them, deposited him on the 
floor of the clothes-press and locked the door. 

So silent had they been that, listening, they heard 
no movement from the watcher on the floor above, who 
stood guard at the attic stairs. And it was evident 
he had heard nothing to make him suspicious. 

The Russian girl, dreadfully pale, leaned against the 
wall as though her limbs scarcely supported her. Nee- 
land passed his arm under hers, nodded to Use Dumont, 
and started cautiously down the carpeted stairs, his 
automatic pistol in one hand, and the revolver taken 
from the imprisoned secret agent clutched tightly in 
the other. 

Down the stairs they crept, straight toward the 
frightful tumult still raging below — down past the 
wrecked club rooms ; past a dead man sprawling on 
the landing across the blood-soaked carpet — down into 
the depths of the dusky building toward the lighted cafe 
floor whence came the uproar of excited men, while, 
384 


A RAT HUNT 


from the street outside, rose the frantic yelling of the 
mob mingled with the crash of glass and the clanging 
dissonance of iron grilles and shutters which were be- 
ing battered into fragments. 

‘‘It’s my chance, now!” whispered Use Dumont, slip- 
ping past him like a shadow. 

For a moment he saw her silhouetted against the yel- 
low electric glare on the stairs below, then, half carry- 
ing the almost helpless Russian girl, he stumbled down 
the last flight of stairs and pushed his way through 
a hurrying group of men who seemed to be searching 
for something, for they were tearing open cupboards 
and buffets, dragging out table drawers and tumbling 
linen, crockery, and glassware all over the black and 
white marble floor. 

The whole place was ankle deep in shattered glass 
and broken bottles, and the place reeked with smoke 
and the odour of wine and spirits. 

Neeland forced his way forward into the cafe, 
looked around for Sengoun, and saw him almost imme- 
diately. 

The young Russian, flushed, infuriated, his collar 
gone and his coat in tatters, was struggling with some 
men who held both his arms but did not offer to strike 
him. 

Behind him, crowded back into a corner near the 
cashier’s steel-grilled desk, stood Use Dumont, calm, 
disdainful, confronted by Brandes, whose swollen, 
greenish eyes, injected with blood, glared redly at her. 
Stull had hold of him and was trying to drag him 
away: 

“For God’s sake, Eddie, shut your mouth,” he pleaded 
in English. “You can’t do that to her, whatever she 
done to you!” 


385 


THE DARK STAR 


But Braudes, disengaging himself with a jerk, pushed 
his way past Sengoun to where Use stood. 

“I’ve got the goods on youP^ he said in a ferocious 
voice that neither Stull nor Cur foot recognised. “You 
know what you did to me, don’t you ! You took my wife 
from me ! Yes, my wife! She was my wife ! She is my 
wife ! — For all you did, you lying, treacherous slut ! — 
For all you’ve done to break me, double-cross me, ruin 
me, drive me out of every place I went ! And now I’ve 
got you ! I’ve sold you out ! Get that ? And you know 
what they’ll do to you, don’t you.^ Well, you’ll see 
when ” 

Curfoot and Stull threw themselves against him, but 
Brandes, his round face pasty with fury, struggled 
back again to confront Use Dumont. 

“Ruined me!” he repeated. “Took away from me 
the only thing God ever gave me for my own ! Took my 
wife I” 

“You dog!” said Use Dumont very slowly. “You 
dirty dog !” 

A frightful spasm crossed Brandes’ features, and 
Stull snatched at the pistol he had whipped out. There 
was a struggle ; Brandes wrenched the weapon free ; but 
Neeland tore his way past Curfoot and struck Brandes 
in the face with the butt of his heavy revolver. 

Instantly the group parted right and left; Sengoun 
suddenly twisted out of the clutches of the men who 
held him, sprang upon Curfoot, and jerked the pistol 
from his fist. At the same moment the entire front of 
the cafe gave way and the mob crashed inward with a 
roar amid the deafening din of shattered metal and the 
clash of splintering glass. 

Through the dust and falling shower of debris, Bran- 
des fired at Use Dumont, reeled about in the whirl of 
386 


A RAT HUNT 


the inrushing throng engulfing him, still firing blindly 
at the woman who had been his wife. 

Neeland put a bullet into his pistol arm, and it fell. 
But Brandes stretched it out again with a supreme 
effort, pointing at Use Dumont with jewelled and 
bloody fingers : 

“That woman is a German spy ! A spy !” he 
screamed. “You damn French mutts, do you under- 
stand what I say! Oh, my God! Will someone who 
speaks French tell them! Will somebody tell them 
she’s a spy! La femme! Cette femme P’ he shrieked. 

*‘Elle est espion! Esp !” He fired again, with his 

left hand. Then Sengoun shot him through the head; 
and at the same moment somebody stabbed Curfoot in 
the neck; and the lank American gambler turned and 
cried out to Stull in a voice half strangled with pain 
and fury: 

“Look out, Ben. There are apaches in this mob! 
That one in the striped jersey knifed me ” 

*^Tiens, v%a pour toi, sale mec de malheurP' muttered 
a voice at his elbow, and a blow from a slung-shot 
crushed the base of his skull. 

As Curfoot crumpled up, Stull caught him; but the 
tall gambler’s dead weight bore Stull to his knees among 
the fierce apaches. 

And there, fighting in silence to the end, his chalky 
face of a sick clown meeting undaunted the overwhelm- 
ing odds against him, Stull was set upon by the apaches 
and stabbed and stabbed until his clothing was a heap 
of ribbons and the watch and packet of French bank- 
notes which the assassins tore from his body were drip- 
ping with his blood. 

Sengoun and Neeland, their evening clothes in tat- 
ters, hatless, dishevelled, began shooting their way out 
387 


THE DARK STAR 


of the hell of murder and destruction raging around 
them. 

Behind them crept Use Dumont and the Russian girl : 
dust and smoke obscured the place where the mob raged 
from floor to floor in a frenzy of destruction, tearing 
out fixtures, telephones, window-sashes, smashing tables, 
bar fixtures, mirrors, ripping the curtains from the 
windows and the very carpets from the floor in their 
overwhelming rage against this Geman cafe. 

That apaches had entered with them the mob cared 
nothing; the red lust of destruction blinded them to 
everything except their terrible necessity for the anni- 
hilation of this place. 

If they saw murder done, and robbery — if they heard 
shots in the tumult and saw pistol flashes through the 
dust and grey light of daybreak, they never turned 
from their raging work. 

Out of the frightful turmoil stormed Neeland and 
Sengoun, their pistols spitting flame, the two women 
clinging to their ragged sleeves. Twice the apaches 
barred their way with bared knives, crouching for a 
rush ; but Sengoun fired into them and Neeland’s bullets 
dropped the ruffian in the striped jersey where he stood 
over Stull’s twitching body ; and the sinister creatures 
leaped back from the levelled weapons, turned, and ran. 

Through the gaping doorway sprang Sengoun, his 
empty pistol menacing the crowd that choked the 
shadowy street; Neeland flung away his pistol and 
turned his revolver on those in the cafe behind him, as 
Use Dumont and the Russian girl crept through and 
out into the street. 

The crowd was cheering and shouting: 

‘‘Down with the Germans ! To the Brasserie 
Schwarz !” 


388 


A RAT HUNT 


An immense wave of people surged suddenly across 
the rue Vilna, headed toward the German cafes on the 
Boulevard; and then, for the first time, Neeland 
caught sight of policemen standing in little groups, 
coolly watching the destruction of the Cafe des 
Bulgars. 

Either they were too few to cope with the mob, or 
they were indifferent as to what was being done to a 
German cafe, but one thing was plain; the police had 
not the faintest idea that murder had been rampant in 
the place. For, when suddenly a dead body was thrown 
from the door out on the sidewalk, their police whistles 
shrilled through the street, and they started for the 
mob, resolutely, pushing, striking with white-gloved 
fists, shouting for right of way. 

Other police came running, showing that they had 
been perfectly aware that German cafes were being at- 
tacked and wrecked. A mounted inspector forced his 
horse along the swarming sidewalk, crying: 

^*AlloTis! Circulez! C^est defendu de s’attrouper 
dans la ruel Mats fichez-moi le camp, nom de Dieu! Les 
AUemands ne sont pas encore dans la place 

Along the street and on the Boulevard mobs were 
forming and already storming three other German 
cafes ; a squadron of Republican Guard cavalry arrived 
at a trot, their helmets glittering in the increasing day- 
light, driving before them a mob which had begun to 
attack a cafe on the corner. 

A captain, superbly mounted, rode ahead of the ad- 
vancing line of horses, warning the throng back into 
the rue Vilna, up which the mob now recoiled, sullenly 
protesting. 

Neeland and Sengoun and the two women were forced 
back with the crowd as a double rank of steel-helmeted 
389 


THE DARK STAR 


horsemen advanced, sweeping everybody into the rue 
Vilna. 

Up the street, through the vague morning light, they 
retired between ranks of closed and silent houses, past 
narrow, evil-looking streets and stony alleys still dark 
with the shadows of the night. 

Into one of thes^e Neeland started with Use Dumont, 
but Sengoun drew him back with a sharp exclamation 
of warning. At the same time the crowd all around 
them became aware of what was going on in the maze 
of dusky lanes and alleys past which they were being 
driven by the cavalry; and the people broke and scat- 
tered like rabbits, darting through the cavalry, dodg- 
ing, scuttling under the very legs of the horses. 

The troop, thrown into disorder, tried to check the 
panic-stricken flight; a brigadier, spurring forward to 
learn the cause of the hysterical stampede, drew bridle 
sharply, then whipped his pistol out of the saddle-hol- 
ster, and galloped into an impasse. 

The troop captain, pushing his horse, caught sight 
of Sengoun and Neeland in the remains of their eve- 
ning dress; and he glanced curiously at them, and at 
the two young women clad in the rags of evening 
gowns. 

“Nom de Dieu!*' he cried. “What are such people as 
you doing here.? Go back! This is no quarter for 
honest folk!” 

“What are those police doing in the alleys.?” de- 
manded Sengoun ; but the captain cantered his horse up 
the street, pistol lifted ; and they saw him fire from his 
saddle at a man who darted out of an alley and who 
started to run across the street. 

The captain missed every shot, but a trooper, whose 
horse had come up on the sidewalk beside Neeland, fired 
890 


A RAT HUNT 


twice more after the running man, and dropped him at 
the second shot. 

‘‘A good business, too,” he said calmly, winking at 
Neeland. “You bourgeois ought to be glad that we’re 
ordered to clean up Paris for you. And now is the time 
to do it,” he added, reloading his weapon. 

Sengoun said in a low voice to Neeland: 

“They’re ridding the city of apaches. It’s plain 
enough that they have orders to kill them where they 
find them ! Look !” he added, pointing to the dead wall 
across the street ; “It’s here at last, and Paris is clean- 
ing house and getting ready for it ! This is war, Nee- 
land — ^war at last!” 

Neeland looked across the street where, under a gas 
lamp on a rusty iron bracket, was pasted the order for 
general mobilisation. And on the sidewalk at the base 
of the wall lay a man, face downward, his dusty shoes 
crossed under the wide flaring trousers, the greasy 
casquet still crowding out his lop ears ; his hand 
clenched beside a stiletto which lay on the stone flagging 
beside him. 

“An apache,” said Sengoun coolly. “That’s right, 
too. It’s the way we do in Russia when we clean house 
for war ” 

His face reddened and lighted joyously. 

“Thank God for my thousand lances 1” he said, lifting 
his eyes to the yellowing sky between the houses in the 
narrow street. “Thank God! Thank God!” 

Now, across the intersections of streets and alleys 
beyond where they stood, policemen and Garde cavalry 
were shooting into doorways, basements, and up the 
sombre, dusky lanes, the dry crack of their service re- 
volvers re-echoing noisily through the street. 

Toward the Boulevard below, a line of police and of 

391 


THE BARK STAR 


cavalrymen blocked the rue Vilna; and, beyond them, 
the last of the mob was being driven from the Cafe des 
Bulgars, where the first ambulances were arriving and 
the police, guarding the ruins, were already looking 
out of windows on the upper floors. 

A cavalryman came clattering down the rue Vilna, 
gesticulating and calling out to Sengoun and Neeland 
to take their ladies and depart. 

‘‘Get us a taxicab — there’s a good fellow !” cried Sen- 
goun in high spirits ; and the cavalryman, looking at 
their dishevelled attire, laughed and nodded as he rode 
ahead of them down the rue Vilna. 

There were several taxicabs on the Boulevard, their 
drivers staring up at the wrecked cafe. As Neeland 
spoke to the driver of one of the cabs. Use Dumont 
stepped back beside the silent girl whom she had locked 
in the bedroom. 

“I gave you a chance,” she said under her breath. 
“What may I expect from you.^ Answer me quickly! 
— What am I to expect.^” 

The girl seemed dazed; 

“N-nothing,” she stammered. “The — the horror of 
that place — the killing — has sickened me. I — I want 
to go home ” 

“You do not intend to denounce me?” 

“No— Oh, God! No!” 

“Is that the truth? If you are lying to me it means 
my death.” 

The girl gazed at her in horror ; tears sprang to her 
eyes ; 

“I couldn’t — I couldn’t!” she stammered in a chok- 
ing voice. “I’ve never before seen death — never seen 
how it came — how men die! This — this killing is hor- 
rible, revolting!” She had laid one trembling little 


A RAT HUNT 


hand on Use Dumont’s bare shoulder. “I don’t want to 
have you killed; the idea of death makes me ill! I’m 
going home — that is all I ask for — to go home ” 

She dropped her pretty head and began to sob hys- 
terically, standing there under the growing daylight of 
the Boulevard, in her tattered evening gown. 

Suddenly Use Dumont threw both arms around her 
and kissed the feverish, tear-wet face: 

‘‘You weren’t meant for this!” she whispered. “You 
do it for money. Go home. Do anything else for wages 
— anything except this! — Anything , I tell you ” 

Neeland’s hand touched her arm: 

“I have a cab. Are you going home with her.^” 

“I dare not,” she said. 

“Then will you take this Russian girl to her home, 
Sengoun.?” he asked. And added in a low voice: “She 
is one of your own people, you know.” 

“All right,” said Sengoun blissfully. “I’d take the 
devil home if you asked me ! Besides, I can talk to her 
about my regiment on the way. That will be wonder- 
ful, Neeland ! That will be quite wonderful ! I can talk 
to her in Russian about my regiment all the way home !” 

He laughed and looked at his friend, at Use Dumont, 
at the drooping figure he was to take under his escort. 
He glanced down at his own ragged attire where he 
stood hatless, collarless, one sleeve of his evening coat 
ripped open to the shoulder. 

“Isn’t it wonderful !” he cried, bursting out into un- 
controllable laughter. “Neeland, my dear comrade, 
this has been the most delightfully wonderful night of 
my entire life ! But the great miracle is still to come ! 
Hurrah for a thousand lances ! Hurrah ! Town taken 
by Prince Erlik! Hurrah!” 

And he seized the young girl whom he was to escort 

393 


THE BARK STAR 


to her home — wherever that hazy locality might be — 
and carried her in his arms to the taxicab, amid en- 
couraging shouts of laughter from the line of cavalry- 
men who had been watching the proceedings from the 
corner of the rue Vilna. 

That shout of Gallic appreciation inflamed Sengoun : 
he reached for his hat, to lift and wave it, but found no 
hat on his head. So he waved his tattered sleeve in- 
stead : 

“Hurrah for France!” he shouted. “Hurrah for 
Russia! I’m Sengoun, of the Terek! — And I am to 
have a thousand lances with which to explain to the 
Germans my opinion of them and of their Emperor !” 

The troopers cheered him from their stirrups, in spite 
of their officers, who pretended to check their men. 

**Vive la France! Vive la RussleF' they roared. 
“Forward the Terek Cossacks !” 

Sengoun turned to Use Dumont: 

“Madame,” he said, “in gratitude and admiration!” 
— and he gracefully saluted her hand. Then, to his 
comrade: “Neeland!” — seizing both the American’s 
hands. “Such a night and such a comrade I shall never 
forget ! I adore our night together ; I love you as a 
brother. I shall see you before I go?” 

“Surely, Sengoun, my dear comrade!” 

**Alors — au revoirH He sprang into the taxicab. 
“To the Russian Embassy!” he called out; and turned 
to the half fainting girl on the seat beside him. 

“Where do you live, my dear?” he asked very gently, 
taking her icy hand in his. 


CHAPTER XXXIV 


SUNRISE 

When the taxicab carrying Captain Sengoun and 
the unknown Russian girl had finally disappeared far 
away down the Boulevard in the thin grey haze of early 
morning, Neeland looked around him; and it was a 
scene unfamiliar, unreal, that met his anxious eyes. 

The sun had not yet gilded the chimney tops; east 
and west, as far as he could see, the Boulevard stretched 
away under its double line of trees between ranks of 
closed and silent houses, lying still and mysterious in 
the misty, bluish-grey light. 

Except for police and municipal guards, and two 
ambulances moving slowly away from the ruined cafe, 
across the street, the vast Boulevard was deserted; no 
taxicabs remained ; no omnibuses moved ; no early work- 
men passed, no slow-moving farm wagons and milk wains 
from the suburbs ; no chiffoniers with scrap-filled sacks 
on their curved backs, and steel-hooked staves, furtively 
sorting and picking among the night’s debris on side- 
walk and in gutter. 

Here and there in front of half a dozen wrecked cafes 
little knots of policemen stood on the glass-littered 
sidewalk, in low-voiced consultation ; far down the 
Boulevard, helmets gleamed dully through the haze 
where municipal cavalry were quietly riding off the 
mobs and gradually pushing them back toward the 
Montmartre and Villette quarters, whence they had 
arrived. 


395 


THE DARK STAR 


Mounted Municipals still sat their beautiful horses in 
double line across the corner of the rue Vilna and par- 
allel streets, closing that entire quarter where, to judge 
from a few fitful and far-away pistol shots, the methodi- 
cal apache hunt was still in progress. 

And it was a strange and sinister phase of Paris that 
Neeland now gazed upon through the misty stillness of 
early morning. For there was something terrible in 
the sudden quiet, where the swift and shadowy fury of 
earliest dawn had passed: and the wrecked buildings 
sagged like corpses, stark and disembowelled, spilling 
out their dead intestines indecently under the whitening 
sky. 

Save for the echoes of distant shots, no louder than 
the breaking of a splinter — save for the deadened 
stamp and stir of horses, a low-voiced order, the fainter 
clash of spurs and scabbards — an intense stillness 
brooded now over the city, ominously prophetic of what 
fateful awakening the coming sunrise threatened for 
the sleeping capital. 

Neeland turned and looked at Use Dumont. She 
stood motionless on the sidewalk, in the clear, colour- 
less light, staring fixedly across the street at the 
debris of the gaping, shattered Cafe des Bulgars. Her 
evening gown hung in filmy tinted shreds; her thick, 
dark hair in lustrous disorder shadowed her white shoul- 
ders; a streak of dry blood striped one delicate bare 
arm. 

To see her standing there on the sidewalk in the full, 
unshadowed morning light, silent, dishevelled, scarcely 
clothed, seemed to him part of the ghastly unreality of 
this sombre and menacing vision, from which he ought 
to rouse himself. 

She turned her head slowly ; her haggard eyes met his 

S96 


SUNRISE 


without expression; and he found his tongue with the 
effort of a man who strives for utterance through a 
threatening dream : 

‘‘We can’t stay here,” he said. The sound of his 
own voice steadied and cleared his senses. He glanced 
down at his own attire, blood-stained, and ragged ; felt 
for the loose end of his collar, rebuttoned it, and knotted 
the draggled white tie with the unconscious indifference 
of habit. 

“What a nightmare !” he muttered to himself. “The 
world has been turned upside down over night.” He 
looked up at her: “We can’t stay here,” he repeated. 
“Where do you live.?” 

She did not appear to hear him. She had already 
started to move toward the rue Vilna, where the troop- 
ers barring that street still sat their restive horses. 
They were watching her and her dishevelled companion 
with the sophisticated amusement of men who, by clean 
daylight, encounter fagged-out revellers of a riotous 
night. 

Neeland spoke to her again, then followed her and 
took her arm. 

“Where are you going.?” he repeated, uneasily. 

“I shall give myself up,” she replied in a dull 
voice. 

“To whom.?” 

“To the Municipals over there.” 

“Give yourself up !” he repeated. “Why .?” 

She passed a slender hand over her eyes as though 
unutterably weary: 

“Neeland,” she said, “I am lost already. . . . And 
I am very tired.” 

“What do you mean.?” he demanded, drawing her 
back under a porte-cochere, “You live somewhere, 
697 


THE DARK STAR 


don’t you? If it’s safe for you to go back to your 
lodgings, I’ll take you there. Is it?” 

“No.” 

“Well, then. I’ll take you somewhere else. I’ll find 
somewhere to take you ” 

She shook her head: 

“It is useless, Neeland. There is no chance of my 
leaving the city now — ^no chance left — no hope. It is 
simpler for me to end the matter this way ” 

“Can’t you go to the Turkish Embassy !” 

She looked up at him in a surprised, hopeless 
way: 

“Do you suppose that any Embassy ever receives a 
spy in trouble? Do you really imagine that any gov- 
ernment ever admits employing secret agents, or stirs 
a finger to aid them when they are in need?” 

“I told you I’d stand by you,” he reminded her 
bluntly. 

“You have been — ^kind — Neeland.” 

“And you have been very loyal to me, Scheherazade. 
I shall not abandon you.” 

“How can you help me? I can’t get out of this 
city. Wherever I go, now, it will be only a matter 
of a few hours before I am arrested.” 

“The American Embassy. There is a mem there,” 
he reminded her. 

She shrugged her naked shoulders: 

“I cannot get within sight of the Trocadero before 
the secret police arrest me. Where shall I go ? I have 
no passport, no papers, not even false ones. If I go 
to the lodgings where I expected to find shelter it means 
my arrest, court martial, and execution in a caserne 
within twenty-four hours. And it would involve others 
who trust me— condemn them instantly to a firing squad 
S98 


SUNRISE 


— if I am found by the police in their company! . . . 
No, Neeland. There’s no hope for me. Too many know 
me in Paris. I took a risk in coming here when war 
was almost certain. I took my chances, and lost. It’s 
too late to whimper now.” 

As he stared at her something suddenly brightened 
above them; and he looked up and saw the first sun- 
beam painting a chimney top with palest gold. 

“Come,” he said, “we’ve got to get out of this! 
We’ve got to go somewhere — find a taxicab and get 
under shelter ” 

She yielded to the pressure of his arm and moved for- 
ward beside him. He halted for a moment on the curb, 
looking up and down the empty streets for a cab of any 
sort, then, with the instinct of a man for whom the 
Latin Quarter had once been a refuge and a home, 
he started across the Boulevard, his arm clasping 
hers. 

All the housetops were glittering with the sun as 
they passed the ranks of the Municipal cavalry. 

A young officer looked down mischievously as they 
traversed the Boulevard — the only moving objects in 
that vast and still perspective. 

“il/ow DieuT^ he murmured. “A night like that is 
something to remember in the winter of old age I” 

Neeland heard him. The gay, bantering, irrespon- 
sible Gallic wit awoke him to himself; the rising sun, 
tipping the city’s spires with fire, seemed to relight a 
little, long-forgotten flame within him. His sombre fea- 
tures cleared ; he said confidently to the girl beside 
him: 

“Don’t worry; we’ll get you out of it somehow or 
other. It’s been a rather frightful dream, Schehera- 
zade, nothing worse ” 


399 


THE DARK STAR 


Her arm suddenly tightened against his and he turned 
to look at the shattered Cafe des Bulgars which they 
were passing, where two policemen stood looking at a 
cat which was picking its way over the mass of debris, 
mewing dismally. 

One of the policemen, noticing them, smiled sympa- 
thetically at their battered appearance. 

“Would you like to have a cat for your lively 
menage?^^ he said, pointing to the melancholy animal 
which Neeland recognised as the dignified property of 
the Cercle Extranationale. 

The other policeman, more suspicious, eyed Use Du- 
mont closely as she knelt impulsively and picked up 
the homeless cat. 

“Where are you going in such a state he asked, 
moving over the heaps of splintered glass toward her. 

“Back to the Latin Quarter,” said Neeland, so cheer- 
fully that suspicion vanished and a faint grin replaced 
the official frown. 

^^Allons, mes enfantSy** he muttered. **Faut pas 
s^attrouper dans la rue. Also you both are a scandal. 
Allans! Filez! Houp! The sun is up already!” 

They went out across the rue Royale toward the 
Place de la Concorde, which spread away before them 
in deserted immensity and beauty. 

There were no taxicabs in sight. Use, carrying the 
cat in her arms, moved beside Neeland through the 
deathly stillness of the city, as though she were walking 
in a dream. Everywhere in the pale blue sky above 
them steeple and dome glittered with the sun; there 
were no sounds from quai or river; no breeze stirred 
the trees; nothing moved on esplanade or bridge; the 
pale blue August sky grew bluer; the gilded tip of the 
obelisk glittered like a living flame. 

400 


SUNRISE 


Neeland turned and looked up the Champs Eljsees. 

Far away on the surface of the immense avenue a 
tiny dark speck was speeding — increasing in size, com- 
ing nearer. 

“A taxi,” he said with a quick breath of relief. 
“We’ll be all right now.” 

Nearer and nearer came the speeding vehicle, rushing 
toward them between the motionless green ranks of 
trees. Neeland walked forward across the square to 
signal it, waited, watching its approach with a slight 
uneasiness. 

Now it sped between the rearing stone horses, and 
now, swerving, swung to the left toward the rue Royale. 
And to his disgust and disappointment he saw it was 
a private automobile. 

“The devil!” he muttered, turning on his heel. 

At the same moment, as though the chauffeur had 
suddenly caught an order from within the limousine, 
the car swung directly toward him once more. 

As he rejoined Use, who stood clasping the homeless 
cat to her breast, listlessly regarding the approaching 
automobile, the car swept in a swift circle around the 
fountain where they stood, stopped short beside them; 
and a woman flung open the door and sprang out to 
the pavement. 

And Use Dumont, standing there in the rags of her 
frail gown, cuddling to her breast the purring cat, 
looked up to meet her doom in the steady gaze of the 
Princess Nai'a Mistchenka. 

Every atom of colour left her face, and her ashy 
lips parted. Otherwise, she made no sign of fear, no 
movement. 

There was a second’s absolute silence; then the dark 
eyes of the Princess turned on Neeland. 

401 


THE DARK STAR 


‘‘Good heavens, James !” she said. “What has hap- 
pened to you?” 

“Nothing,” he said gaily, “thanks to Miss Du- 
mont ” 

“To whom?’’ interrupted the Princess sharply. 

“To Miss Dumont. We got into a silly place where 
it began to look as though we’d get our heads knocked 
off, Sengoun and I. I’m really quite serious. Princess, 
If it hadn’t been for Miss Dumont — ” he shrugged; 
“ — and that is twice she has saved my idiotic head for 
me,” he added cheerfully. 

The Princess Nai'a’s dark eyes reverted to Use Du- 
mont, and the pallid girl met them steadily enough. 
There was no supplication in her own eyes, no shrink- 
ing, only the hopeless tranquillity that looks Destiny 
in the face — the gaze riveted unflinchingly upon the 
descending blow. 

“What Sixe you doing in Paris at such a time as 
this?” said the Princess. 

The girl’s white lips parted stiffly: 

“Do you need to ask?” 

For a full minute the Princess bent a menacing gaze 
on her in silence; then: 

“What do you expect from Tue?” she demanded in a 
low voice. And, stepping nearer: “What have you to 
expect from anyone in France on such a day as this?” 

Use Dumont did not answer. After a moment she 
dropped her head and fumbled with the rags of her 
bodice, as though trying to cover the delicately rounded 
shoulders. A shaft of sunlight, reflected from the obe- 
lisk to the fountain, played in golden ripples across her 
hair. 

Neeland looked at the Princess Naia: 

“What you do is none of my business,” he said pleaS' 

402 


SUNRISE 


antly, “but — ” he smiled at her and stepped back be- 
side Use Dumont, and passed his arm through hers: 
“I’m a grateful beast,” he added lightly, “and if I’tc 
nine lives to lose, perhaps Miss Dumont will save seven 
more of them before I’m entirely done for.” 

The girl gently disengaged his arm. 

“You’ll only get yourself into serious trouble,” she 
murmured, “and you can’t help me, dear Neeland.” 

The Princess Naia, flushed and exasperated, bit her 
Up. 

“James,” she said, “you are behaving absurdly. That 
woman has nothing to fear from me now, and she ought 
to know it!” And, as Use lifted her head and stared 
at her: “Yes, you ought to know it!” she repeated. 
“Your work is ended. It ended today at sunrise. And 
so did mine. War is here. There is nothing further 
for you to do ; nothing for me. The end of everything 
is beginning. What would your death or mine signify 
now, when the dawn of such a day as this is the death 
warrant for millions? What do we count for now. 
Mademoiselle Minna Minti?” 

“Do you not mean to give me up, madame.^” 

“Give you up? No. I mean to get you out of Paris 
if I can. Give me your cat, mademoiselle. Please help 
her, James ” 

“You — offer me your limousine?” stammered Use. 

“Give that cat to me. Of course I do ! Do you 
suppose I mean to leave you in rags with your cat on 
the pavement here?” And, to Neeland: “Where is 
Alak.?” 

“Gone home as fit as a fiddle. Am I to receive the 
hospitality of your limousine also, dear lady ? Look at 
the state I’m in to travel with two ladies!” 

The Princess Nai'a’s dark eyes glimmered; she tucked 

406 


THE DARK STAR 


the cat comfortably against her shoulder and motioned 
Use into the car. 

‘‘I’m afraid I’ll have to take you, James. What on 
earth has happened to you?” she added, as he put her 
into the car, nodded to the chauffeur, and, springing 
in beside her, slammed the door. 

“I’ll tell you in two words,” he explained gaily. 
“Prince Erlik and I started for a stroll and landed, 
ultimately, in the Cafe des Bulgars. And presently a 
number of gentlemen began to shoot up the place, and 
Miss Dumont stood by us like a brick.” 

The Princess Mistchenka lifted the cat from her lap 
and placed it in the arms of Use Dumont. 

“That ought to win our gratitude, I’m sure,” she 
said politely to the girl. “We Russians never forget 
such pleasant obligations. There is a Cossack jingle: 

*‘To those who befriend our friends 
Our duty never ends.’* 

Use Dumont bent low over the purring cat in her 
lap ; the Princess watched her askance from moment 
to moment, and Neeland furtively noted the contrast 
between these women — one in rags and haggard dis- 
order ; the other so trim, pretty, and fresh in her morn- 
ing walking suit. 

“James,” she said abruptly, “we’ve had a most horrid 
night, Ruhannah and I. The child waited up for you, 
it seems — I thought she’d gone to bed — and she came 
to my room about two in the morning — the little goose 
— as though men didn’t stay out all night !” 

“I’m terribly sorry,” he said contritely. 

“You ought to be. . . . And Ruhannah was so 
disturbed that I put on something and got out of bed. 
And after a while” — the Princess glanced sardonically 
404 


SUNRISE 


at Use Dumont — “I telephoned to various sources of 
information and was informed concerning the rather 
lively episodes of your nocturnal career with Sengoun. 
And when I learned that you and he had been seen 
to enter the Cafe des Bulgars, I became sufficiently 
alarmed to notify several people who might be interested 
in the matter.” 

‘‘One of those people,” said Neeland, smiling, “was 
escorted to her home by Captain Sengoun, I think.” 

The Princess glanced out of the window where the 
early morning sun glimmered on the trees as the car 
flew swiftly through the Champs Elysees. 

“I heard that there were some men killed there last 
night,” she said without turning. 

“Several, I believe,” admitted Neeland. 

“Were ^ou there, then.^” 

“Yes,” he replied, uncomfortably. 

“Did you know anybody who was killed, James.?” 

“Yes, by sight.” 

She turned to him: 

“Who.?” 

“There was a man named Kestner; another named 
Weishelm. Three American gamblers were killed also.” 

“And Karl Breslau.?” inquired the Princess coolly. 

There was a moment’s silence. 

“No. I think he got away across the roofs of the 
houses,” replied Neeland. 

Use Dumont, bent over the cat in her lap, stared ab- 
sently into its green eyes where it lay playfully patting 
the rags that hung from her torn bodice. 

Perhaps she was thinking of the dead man where he 
lay in the crowded cafe — the dead man who had con- 
fronted her with bloodshot eyes and lifted pistol — 
whose voice, thick with rage, had denounced her — whose 
405 


THE BARK STAR 


stammering, untaught tongue stumbled over the foreign 
words with which he meant to send her to her death — 
this dead man who once had been h^r man — long ago 
— very, very long ago when there was no bitterness in 
life, no pain, no treachery — when life was young in 
the Western World, and Fate gaily beckoned her, wear- 
ing a smiling mask and crowned with flowers. 

“I hope,” remarked the Princess Mistchenka, “that 
it is sufficiently early in the morning for you to escape 
observation, James.” 

“Pm a scandal; I know it,” he admitted, as the car 
swung into the rue Soleil d’Or. 

The Princess turned to the drooping girl beside her 
and laid a gloved hand lightly on her shoulder. 

“My dear,” she said gently, “there is only one chance 
for you, and if we let it pass it will not come again — 
under military law.” 

Use lifted her head, held it high, even tilted back a 
little. 

The Princess said: 

“Twenty-four hours will be given for all Germans to 
leave France. But — you took your nationality from 
the man you married. You are American.” 

The girl flushed painfully: 

“I do not care to take shelter under his name,” she 
said. 

“It is the only way. And you must get to the coast 
in my car. There is no time to lose. Every vehicle, 
private and public, will be seized for military uses this 
morning. Every train will be crowded; every foot of 
room occupied on the Channel boats. There is only 
one thing for you to do — travel with me to Havre as 
my American maid.” 

“Madame — would you do that — for me.?” 

406 


SUNRISE 


“Why, I’ve got to,” said the Princess Mistchenka 
with a shrug. “I am not a barbarian to leave you to a 
firing squad, I hope.” 

The car had stopped; the chauffeur descended and 
came around to open the door. 

“Caron,” said the Princess, “no servants are stirring 
yet. Take my key, find a cloak and bring it out — and 
a coat for Monsieur Neeland — the one that Captain 
Sengoun left the other evening. Have you plenty of 
gasoline .?” 

“Plenty, madame.” 

“Good. We leave for Havre in five minutes. Bring 
the cloak and coat quickly.” 

The chauffeur hastened to the door, unlocked it, dis- 
appeared, then came out carrying a voluminous wrap 
and a man’s opera cloak. The Princess threw the one 
over Use Dumont; Neeland enveloped himself in the 
other. 

“Now,” murmured the Princess Nai'a, “it will look 
more like a late automobile party than an ambulance 
after a free fight — if any early servants are watch- 
ing us.” 

She descended from the car; Use Dumont followed, 
still clasping the cat under her cloak ; and Neeland fol- 
lowed her. 

“Be very quiet,” whispered the Princess. “There is 
no necessity for servants to observe what we do ” 

A small and tremulous voice from the head of the 
stairs interrupted her: 

“Nai'a! Is it you.^” 

“Hush, Ruhannah! Yes, darling, it is I. Every- 
thing is all right and you may go back to bed 

“Na'ia! Where is Mr. Neeland.?” continued the voice, 
fearfully. 


407 


THE DARK STAR 


“He is here. Rue ! He is all right. Go back to your 
room, dear. I have a reason for asking you.” 

Listening, she heard a door close above; then she 
touched Use on the shoulder and motioned her to follow 
up the stairs. Halfway up the Princess halted, bent 
swiftly over the banisters: 

“James!” she called softly. 

“Yes?” 

“Go into the pantry and find a fruit basket and fill 
it with whatever food you can find. Hurry, please.” 

He discovered the pantry presently, and a basket of 
fruit there. Poking about he contrived to disinter from 
various tins and ice-boxes some cold chicken and bis- 
cuits and a bottle of claret. These he wrapped hastily 
in a napkin which he found there, placed them in the 
basket of fruit, and came out into the hall just as Use 
Dumont, in the collar and cuffs and travelling coat of 
a servant, descended, carrying a satchel and a suit-case. 

“Good business 1” he whispered, delighted. “ Y ou’re 
all right now, Scheherazade! And for heaven’s sake, 
keep out of France hereafter. Do you promise.^” 

He had taken the satchel and bag from her and 
handed both, and the fruit basket, to Caron, who stood 
outside the door. 

In the shadowy hall those two confronted each other 
now, probably for the last time. He took both her 
hands in his. 

“Good-bye, Scheherazade dear,” he said, with a 
new seriousness in his voice which made the tone of it 
almost tender. 

“G-good-bye ” The girl’s voice choked ; she bent 

her head and rested her face on the hands he held 
clasped in his. 

He felt her hot tears falling, felt the slender fingers 

408 


SUNRISE 


within his own tighten convulsively ; felt her lips against 
his hand — an instant only ; then she turned and slipped 
through the open door. 

A moment later the Princess Naia appeared on the 
stairs, descending lightly and swiftly, her motor coat 
over her arm. 

“Jim,” she said in a low voice, “it’s the wretched 
girl’s only chance. They know about her ; they’re look- 
ing for her now. But I am trusted by my Ambassador ; 
I shall have what papers I ask for; I shall get her 
through to an American steamer.” 

“Princess Naia, you are splendid!” 

“You don’t think so, Jim; you never did. ... Be 
nice to Rue. The child has been dreadfully frightened 
about you. . . . And,” added the Princess Mistchenka 
with a gaily forced smile, resting her hand on Nee- 
land’s shoulder for an instant, “don’t ever kiss Rue 
Carew unless you mean it with every atom of your 
heart and soul. ... I know the child. . . . And I 
know you. Be generous to her, James. All women 
need it, I think, from such men as you — such men as 
you,” she added laughingly, “who know not what 
they do.” 

If there was a subtle constraint in her pretty laugh- 
ter, if her gay gesture lacked spontaneity, he did not 
perceive it. His face had flushed a trifle under her 
sudden badinage. 

“Good-bye,” he said. “You are splendid, and I da 
think so. I know you’ll win through.” 

“I shall. I always do — except with you,” she added 
audaciously. And “Look for me tomorrow !” she 
called back to him through the open door ; and slammed 
it behind her, leaving him standing there alone in the 
dark and curtained house. 

409 


CHAPTER XXXV 


THE FIRST DAY 

Neeland had undressed, bathed his somewhat bat- 
tered body, and had then thrown himself on the bed, 
fully intending to rise in a few moments and await 
breakfast. 

But it was a very weary young man who stretched 
himself out for ten minutes’ repose. And, when again 
he unclosed his eyes, the austere clock on the mantel 
informed him that it was five — not five in the morning 
either. 

He had slept through the first day of general mobili- 
sation. 

Across the lowered latticed blinds late afternoon sun- 
shine struck red. The crests of the chestnut trees in 
the rue Soleil d’Or had turned rosy; and a delicate 
mauve sky, so characteristic of Paris in early autumn, 
already stretched above the city like a frail tent of silk 
from which fragile cobweb clouds hung, tinted with 
saffron and palest rose. 

Hoisting the latteen shades, he looked out through 
lace curtains into the most silent city he had ever ]^- 
held. Not that the streets and avenues were deserted: 
they swarmed with hurrying, silent people and with 
taxicabs. 

Never had he seen so many taxicabs ; they streamed 
by everywhere, rushing at high speed. They passed 
through the rue Soleil d’Or; the rue de la Lune fairly 
410 


THE FIRST DAY 


whizzed with them ; the splendid avenue was merely a 
vista of flying taxis; and in every one of them there 
was a soldier. 

Otherwise, except for cyclists, there seemed to be very 
few soldiers in Paris — an odd fact immediately notice- 
able. 

Also there were no omnibuses to be seen, no private 
automobiles, no electric vehicles of any sort except 
great grey army trucks trundling by with a sapper at 
the wheel. 

And, except for the whiz and rush of the motors and 
the melancholy siren blasts from their horns, an im- 
mense silence reigned in the streets. 

There was no laughter to be heard, ho loud calling, 
no gay and animated badinage. People who met and 
stopped conversed in undertones ; gestures were sober 
and rare. 

And everywhere, in the intense stillness. Red Cross 
flags hung motionless in the late afternoon sunshine; 
everywhere were posted notices warning the Republic of 
general mobilisation — on dead walls, on tree-boxes, on 
kiosques, on bulletin boards, on the fa9ades of public 
and ecclesiastical buildings. 

Another ordinance which Neeland could read from 
where he stood at the window warned all citizens from 
the streets after eight o’clock in the evening; and on 
the closed iron shutters of every shop in sight of his 
window were pasted white strips of paper bearing, in 
black letters, the same explanation : 

** Ferine a cause de la mohilisation,*^ 

Nowhere could he see the word ‘‘war” printed or 
otherwise displayed. The conspiracy of silence con- 
cerning it seemed the more ominous. 

Nor, listening, could he hear the sinister voices of 

411 


THE DARK STAR 


men and boys calling extra editions of the papers. 
There seemed to be no need for the raising of hoarse 
and threatening voices in the soundless capital. Men 
and youths of all ages traversed the avenues and streets 
with sheafs of fresh, damp newspapers over their ragged 
arms, but it was the populace who crowded after and 
importuned them, not they the people; and no sooner 
did a paper-seller appear than he was stripped of his 
wares and was counting his coppers under the trees 
before hurrying away for a fresh supply. 

Neeland dressed himself in sections, always returning 
to the window to look out; and in this manner he 
achieved his toilet. 

Marotte, the old butler, was on the floor below, carry- 
ing a tea tray into the wide, sunny sitting-room as 
Neeland descended. 

“I overslept,’’ explained the young American, “and 
I’m nearly starved. Is Mademoiselle Carew having 
tea?” 

“Mademoiselle requested tea for two, sir, in case you 
should awake,” said the old man solemnly. 

Neeland watched him fussing about with cloth and 
table and silver. 

“Have you any news?” he asked after a moment. 

“Very little. Monsieur Neeland. The police have 
ordered all Germans into detention camps — men, 
women, and children. It is said that there are to be 
twelve great camps for these unfortunates who are to 
assemble in the Lycee Condorcet for immediate trans- 
portation.” 

Neeland thought of Use Dumont. Presently he asked 
whether any message had been rceeived from the 
Princess Mistchenka. 

“Madame the Princess telephoned from Havre at 

412 


THE FIRST DAY 


four o’clock this afternoon. Mademoiselle Carew has 
the message.” 

Neeland, reassured, nodded : 

“No other news, Marotte?” 

“The military have taken our automobiles from the 
garage, and have requisitioned the car which Madame la 
Princess is now using, ordering us to place it at their 
disposal as soon as it returns from Havre. Also, Mon- 
sieur le Capitaine Sengoun has telephoned from the 
Russian Embassy, but Mademoiselle Carew would not 
permit Monsieur to be awakened.” 

“What did Captain Sengoun say?” 

“Mademoiselle Carew received the message.” 

“And did anyone else call me up.^” asked Neeland, 
smiling. 

“/Z y avait wn€ fe — une espece de dame'"* replied the 
old man doubtfully, “ — who named herself Fifi la Tzi- 
gane. I permitted myself to observe to her,” added the 
butler with dignity, “that she had the liberty of writ- 
ing to you what she thought necessary to communi- 
cate.” 

He had arranged the tea-table. Now he retired, but 
returned almost immediately to decorate the table with 
Cloth of Gold roses. 

Fussing and pottering about until the mass of 
lovely blossoms suited him, he finally presented himself 
to Neeland for further orders, and, learning that there 
were none, started to retire with a self-respecting dig- 
nity that was not at all impaired by the tears which 
kept welling up in his aged eyes, and which he always 
winked away with a demi-tour and a discreet cough cor- 
rectly stifled by his dry and wrinkled hand. 

As he passed out the door Neeland said: 

“Are you in trouble, Marotte?” 

413 


THE BARK STAR 


The old man straightened up, and a fierce pride 
blazed for a moment from his faded eyes : 

“Not trouble, monsieur; but — when one has three 
sons departing for the front — dame ! — that makes one 
reflect a little ” 

He bowed with the unconscious dignity of a wider 
liberty, a subtler equality which, for a moment, left 
such as he indifferent to circumstances of station. 

Neeland stepped forward extending his hand: 

^*Bonne chance! God be with France — and with us 
all who love our liberty. Luck to your three sons !” 

“I thank monsieur ” He steadied his voice, bowed 

in the faultless garments which were his badge of serv- 
ice, and went his way through the silence in the house. 

Neeland had walked to the long windows giving on 
the pretty balcony with its delicate, wrought-iron rails 
and its brilliant masses of geraniums. 

Outside, along the Avenue, in absolute silence, a regi- 
ment of cuirassiers was passing, the level sun blazing 
like sheets of crimson fire across their helmets and 
breastplates. And now, listening, the far clatter of 
their horses came to his ears in an immense, unbroken, 
rattling resonance. 

Their gold-fringed standard passed, and the sunlight 
on the naked sabres ran from point to hilt like liquid 
blood. Sons of the Cuirassiers of Morsbronn, grand- 
sons of the Cuirassiers of Waterloo — what was their 
magnificent fate to be.? — For splendid it could not fail 
to be, whether tragic or fortunate. 

The American’s heart began to hammer in his breast 
and throb in his throat, closing it with a sudden spasm 
that seemed to confuse his vision for a moment and turn 
the distant passing regiment to a glittering stream of 
steel and flame. 


414 


THE FIRST DAY 


Then it had passed; the darkly speeding torrent of 
motor cars alone possessed the Avenue; and Neeland 
turned away into the room again. 

And there, before him, stood Rue Carew. 

A confused sense of unreasoning, immeasurable hap- 
piness rushed over him, and, in that sudden, astound- 
ing instant of self-revelation, self-amazement left him 
dumb. 

She had given him both her slim white hands, and he 
held to them as though to find his bearings. Both were 
a trifle irrelevant and fragmentary. 

‘‘Do you c-care for tea, Jim.?^ . . . What a night! 
WTiat a fright you gave us. . . . There are croissants^ 
too, and caviar. ... I would not permit anybody to 
awaken you; and I was dying to see you ” 

“I am so sorry you were anxious about me. And Pm 
tremendously hungry. . . .You see, Sengoun and I 
did not mean to remain out all night. . . . I’ll help you 
with that tea ; shall I . . . ” 

He still retained her hands in his; she smiled and 
flushed in a breathless sort of way, and looked some- 
times at the tea-kettle as though she never before had 
seen such an object; and looked up at him as though 
she had never until that moment beheld any man like 
him. 

“The Princess Nai'a has left us quite alone,” she said, 
“so I must give you some tea.” She was nervous and 
smiling and a little frightened and confused with the 
sense of their contact. 

“So — I shall give you your tea, now,” she repeated. 

She did not mention her manual inability to perform 
her promise, but presently it occurred to him to release 
her hands, and she slid gracefully into her chair and 
took hold of the silver kettle with fingers that trembled. 
415 


THE DARK STAR 


He ate everything offered him, and then took the 
initiative. And he talked — Oh, heaven ! How he talked ! 
Everything that had happened to him and to Sengoun 
from the moment they left the me Soleil d’Or the night 
before, this garrulous young man detailed with a relish 
for humorous circumstance and a disregard for any- 
thing approaching the tragic, which left her with an 
impression that it had all been a tremendous lark — 
indiscreet, certainly, and probably reprehensible — but 
a lark, for all that. 

Fireworks, shooting, noise, and architectural destruc- 
tion he admitted, but casualties he skimmed over, and 
of death he never said a word. Why should he? The 
dead were dead. None concerned this young girl now 
— and, save one, no death that any man had died there 
in the shambles of the Cafe des Bulgars could ever mean 
anything to Rue Carew. 

Some day, perhaps, he might tell her that Brandes 
was dead — not where or how he had died — but merely 
the dry detail. And she might docket it, if she cared 
to, and lay it away among the old, scarcely remembered, 
painful things that had been lived, and now were to be 
forgotten forever. 

The silence of intensest interest, shy or excited ques- 
tions, and the grey eyes never leaving his — this was her 
tribute. 

Grey eyes tinged with golden lights, now clear with 
suspense, now brilliant at a crisis, now gentle, wonder- 
ing, troubled, as he spoke of Use Dumont and the Rus- 
sian girl, now charmingly vague as her mind outstripped 
his tongue and she divined something of the sturdy part 
he had played — golden-grey eyes that grew exquisite 
with her pride in him, tender with solicitude for him 
in dangers already passed away — this was her tribute 
416 


THE FIRST DAY 


Engaging grey eyes of a girl with the splendour and 
mystery of womanhood possessing her — attracting him, 
too, fascinating him, threatening, conquering, possess- 
ing him — this, the Greek gift of Rue Carew, her tribute. 

And he took all, forgetting that the Greeks bore 
gifts; or, perhaps, remembering, rejoicing, happy in 
his servitude, he took into his heart and soul the trib- 
ute this young girl offered, a grateful, thankful cap- 
tive. 

The terrible cataclysm impending, menacing the 
world, they seemed powerless, yet, to grasp and com- 
prehend and understand. 

Outside, the street rippled and roared with the in- 
terminable clatter of passing cavalry: the girl looked 
into the eyes of the boy across the tea-table, and her 
young eyes, half fearful yet enchanted, scarce dared 
divine what his eyes were telling her while his hurrying 
tongue chattered irrelevancies. 

Three empires, two kingdoms, and a great republic 
resounded with the hellish din of arming twenty million 
men. Her soft lips were touched with the smile of youth 
that learns for the first time it is beloved; her eyes of 
a child, exquisite, brooding, rested with a little more 
courage now on his — -were learning, little by little, to 
sustain his gaze, endure the ardour that no careless, 
laughing speech of his could hide or dim or quench. 

In the twilight of the streets there was silence, save 
for the rush of motors and the recurrent trample of 
armed men. But the heart of Rue Carew was afire with 
song — and every delicate vein in her ran singing to her 
heart. 

There was war in the Eastern world; and palace 
and chancellery were ablaze. But they spoke of the 
West — of humble places and lowly homes ; of still wood- 
417 


THE DARK STAR 


lands where mosses edged the brooks; of peaceful vil- 
lages they both had known, where long, tree-shaded 
streets slept in the dappled shadow under the sun of 
noon. 

Marotte came, silent, self-respecting, very grey and 
tranquil in his hour of trial. 

There were two letters for Neeland, left by hand. 
And, when the old man had gone away bearing his silver 
tray among his heavier burdens : 

“Read them,” nodded Rue Carew. 

He read them both aloud to her: the first amused 
them a little — not without troubling them a little, too: 

Monsieur Neeland: 

It is the Tzigane, Fifi, who permits herself the honour 
of addressing you. 

Breslau escaped. With him went the plans, it seems. 
You behaved admirably in the Cafe des Bulgars. A Rus- 
sian comrade has you and Prince Erlik to remember in 
her prayers. 

You have done well, monsieur. Now, your task is ended. 
Go back to the Western World and leave us to end this 
battle between ourselves. 

It is written and confirmed by the stars that what the 
Eastern World has sown it shall now reap all alone. 

We Tziganes know. You should not mock at our knowl- 
edge. For there is a dark star, Erlik, named from the 
Prince of Hell. And last night it was in conjunction 
with the red star, Mars. None saw it; none has ever be- 
held the dark star, Erlik. 

But we Tziganes know. We have known for five thou- 
sand years that Erlik hung aloft, followed by ten black 
moons. Ask your astronomers. But we Tziganes knew 
this before there ever were astronomers! 

Therefore, go home to your own land, monsieur. The 
Prince of Hell is in the heavens. The Yellow Devil shall 
see the Golden Horn again. Empires shall totter and fall. 
Little American, stand from under. 

418 


THE FIRST DAY 


Adieu! We Tziganes wish you well — Fifi and Nini of 
the Jardin Russe. 

“Adieu, beau jeune homme! And — to her whom you 
shall take with you — homage, good wishes, good augury, 
and adieux!’^ 

“ ‘To her whom you shall take with you,’ ” he re- 
peated, looking at Rue Carew. 

The girl blushed furiously and bent her head, and 
her slender fingers grew desperately busy with her hand- 
kerchief. 

Neeland, as nervous as she, fumbled with the seal of 
the remaining letter, managed finally to break it, 
glanced at the writing, then laughed and read : 

My dear Comrade Neeland: 

I get my thousand lances! Congratulate me! Were 
you much battered by that canaille last night? I laugh 
until I nearly burst when I think of that absurd bou- 
sculade! 

That girl I took with me is all right. I’m going to 
Petrograd! I’m going on the first opportunity by way 
of Switzerland. 

What happiness, Neeland! No more towns for me, ex- 
cept those I take. No more politics, no more diplomacy! 
I shall have a thousand lances to do my talking for me. 
Hurrah ! 

Neeland, I love you as a brother. Come to the East with 
me. You shall make a splendid trooper! Not, of course, 
a Terek Cossack. A Cossack is God’s work. A Terek 
Cossack is born, not made. 

But, good heavens ! There is other most excellent 
cavalry in the world, I hope! Come with me to Russia. 
Say that you will come, my dear comrade Neeland, and 
I promise you we shall amuse ourselves when the world’s 
dance begins 

“Oh!” breathed the girl, exasperated. “Sengoun is 
a fool!” 


419 


THE DARK STAR 


Neeland looked up quickly from his letter; then his 
face altered, and he rose; but Rue Carew was already 
on her feet; and she had lost most of her colour — and 
her presence of mind, too, it seemed, for Neeland’s arms 
were half around her, and her hands were against his 
shoulders. 

Neither of them spoke; and he was already amazed 
and rather scared at his own incredible daring — already 
terribly afraid of this slender, fragrant creature who 
stood rigid and silent within the circle of his arm, her 
head lowered, her little, resisting hands pressed con- 
vulsively against his breast. 

And after a long time the pressure against his breast 
slowly relaxed; her restless fingers moved nervously 
against his shoulders, picked at the lapels of his coat, 
clung there as he drew her head against his breast. 

The absurd beating of his heart choked him as he 
stammered her name; he dropped his head beside her 
hot and half hidden cheek. And, after a long, long 
time, her face stirred on his breast, turned a very 
little toward him, and her young lips melted against 
his. 

So they stood through the throbbing silence in the 
slowly darkening room, while the street outside echoed 
with the interminable trample of passing cavalry, and 
the dim capital lay like a phantom city under the 
ghostly lances of the searchlights as though probing 
all Heaven to the very feet of God in search of reasons 
for the hellish crime now launched against the guiltless 
Motherland. 

And high among the planets sped the dark star, Er- 
lik, unseen by men, rushing through viewless interstellar 
space, hurled out of nothing by the Prince of Hell into 
the nothing toward which all Hell is speeding, too ; and 
420 


THE FIRST DAY 


whither it shall one day fade and disappear and pass 
away forever. 

‘‘My darling ” 

“Oh, Jim — I have loved you all my life,” she whis- 
pered. And her young arms crept up and clung around 
his neck. 

“My darling Rue — my little Rue Carew ” 

Outside the window an officer also spoke through the 
unbroken clatter of passing horsemen which filled the 
whole house with a hollow roar. But she heard her 
lover’s voice alone as in a hushed and magic world ; and 
in her girl’s enchanted ears his words were the only 
sounds that stirred a heavenly quiet that reigned be- 
tween the earth and stars. 


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